THE COVE

Catriona King

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events, locations or areas, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations and segments used for promotion or in reviews.

Copyright © 2023 by Catriona King

Photography: David Hyde

Artwork: Jonathan Temples:

creative@jonathantemples.co.uk

Editors: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam

Formatting: Rebecca Emin

All rights reserved.

Hamilton-Crean Publishing Ltd. 2023

Contents

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Core Characters in the Craig Crime Novels

Key Background Locations

For My Mother

About the Author

Catriona King is a medical doctor and trained as a police Forensic Medical Examiner in London, where she worked for some years. She returned to live in Belfast in 2006.

She has written since childhood and has been published in many formats: non-fiction, journalistic and fiction.

‘The Cove’ is book twenty-nine in The Craig Crime Series.

The books can be read as standalones or in any order.

Details of the main characters and locations are listed at the end of each book.

The Craig Crime Series So Far

A Limited Justice
The Grass Tattoo
The Visitor
The Waiting Room
The Broken Shore
The Slowest Cut
The Coercion Key
The Careless Word
The History Suite
The Sixth Estate

The Sect
The Keeper

The Talion Code

The Tribes

The Pact

The Cabal

The Killing Year

The Running of The Deer

The Property

Crossing The Line

The Depths

The Good Woman

Legacy

The Dark

The Farm

The Silver Reul

Disposal

Façade

The Cove

The audiobook of the first Craig Crime novel, A Limited Justice, is now available on Amazon ACX.

The author has also released an unrelated science fiction novel set in New York City: The Carbon Trail.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Northern Ireland and its people for providing the inspiration for my books.

My thanks also to: Andrew Angel and Maureen Vincent-Northam as my editors, Jonathan Temples for his cover design and Rebecca Emin for formatting this work and for her unending support.

I would also like to thank all the police officers I have ever worked with anywhere for their professionalism, wit and compassion.

Catriona King

June 2023

The author can be found on Twitter: @CatrionaKing1

Chapter One

The North Atlantic Ocean. Friday, April 28th 2023. 4 a.m.

It was a hell of a night. Darkness had descended at nine in the evening, accompanied by a fog that had thickened as the clock had advanced, until it found the teenager now, only two hours before sunrise, unable to see a hand in front of his face.

But if visibility had been his only worry, the young man would have been cheering. Adding to his troubles, although still only a tiny part of them to his mind, was a wind so changeable that turning this way or that brought a slap across his face that momentarily disoriented him, a moment made longer and louder by the almost sheet rain that followed in the wind’s wake.

It was no weather to be out in, much less on a boat, but out in it he and his companion were and would be for more hours, only heading home after dawn.

Such was the nature of their business; a business that no decent person would conceive of never mind entertain. A business that he thought so filthy that he could never refer to it by name, instead saying nothing, or if pushed hiding behind euphemisms like they had ‘a job’, ‘raw material to find’ or ‘packages to deliver’.

The youth shuddered violently, wishing that he could forget the dystopia he was living in and feel only numbness, yet dampening his shudder almost instantly and glancing at his crewmate in case he had noticed the reaction, relieved instead to find him gazing into the water, his focus on other things.

He feared his companion for what he had seen him do and yet loved him at the same time, just as he had once believed that he’d been loved in return. Now he had no such illusions. If it came to it, he would become a mere ‘package’ too. He’d been given that choice when the venture had started the year before; “Join me, or…”

He hadn’t asked, “Or what?” because the answer had been obvious, just as he hadn’t run away in the months since even though every fibre in him had wanted to hit the road that first night and never look back.

But what then? What of the ones left behind? What would have happened to them if he had disappeared? Again, the answer had been obvious, and they were far too precious to lose.

And so, he’d stayed, hopeful of somehow mitigating the worst and refusing to do anything but assist: advertising, answering, arranging travel, paying the bills, and watching in horror as his ‘partner’ had embarked on a journey that would send whatever was left of his already damaged soul slithering down to hell.

As the teenager steered south-east, he pulled up his collar to conceal a fresh scratch on his neck, in case his companion realised how it had got there and made him take mitigating steps. He rushed to erase the memory of the injury’s origins, knowing that if he thought too much about it he might go mad, but all the while hoping and praying that the scratch would provide a breadcrumb for some clever cop.

Either way this would all end soon, it had to. But when? WHEN?

As they arrived at their destination, cut the engine, and dropped anchor, that was the only thought he allowed in his mind for the next hour.

****

The Antrim Coast of Northern Ireland. 2.30 p.m.

The young, blond man gazed up blindly at the sky, his once dark-blue eyes now an icy cornflower and their youthful clarity milky with the opalescence of death. But it was the skin around the eyes that held A.C.C. Marc Craig’s attention most. Not bloated, as might have been expected when the youth’s resting place was a rocky shingle so close to the sea that, although his body was dry from the ankles up, his feet, bare, smooth, and still sporting last summer’s tan beneath the rolled-up legs of his jeans, were dangling in the waters of the Irish Sea. As if he had been paddling when he’d died and had simply fallen back.

Although not bloated the skin was broken and bruised. Raw wounds covered the young man’s lean cheeks and square chin, their surroundings tinted a kaleidoscope of green and yellow, purple and black, with the largest stains the darkest suggesting something that the larger man beside Craig said aloud.

“He took a bad beating, boss. And a recent one. Do you think it did for him?”

Craig’s reply came slowly, his attention drawn to the clear sky above them by the sudden deep swoop of a gull. And when the words came, they weren’t what his deputy, Acting DCS Liam Cullen, had expected.

“I think that some bastard might like us to think it did.”

Craig had muttered the words while rising to his feet, using a rock to steady himself on the slippery shale, his city shoes not ridged for stability. Once secure, he nodded his deputy to move down the small cliff cove they had arrived at thirty minutes before, drawn by a call from north coast colleagues who themselves had been alerted to something amiss by coastguards on patrol.

When Liam didn’t move quickly enough, his boss followed up with, “Shift. We need to check the other two before John arrives.”

John being Doctor John Winter, Lead Pathologist for Northern Ireland, and the ‘other two’ referencing the fact that their fair-haired victim wasn’t alone in death.

His companions were male too and just as young: one broader, darker, and more muscled, the second leaner, taller than both his companions, and so pale that he could have been a body-shaped bottle of milk. All three had their eyes opened towards the sky and their heads on a level despite being slightly different heights; they also had their feet dipped similarly in the sea.

It was one of the most disturbing crime scenes that either detective had encountered, and between them they’d been called to quite a few.

“I know it’s early in the day, boss, but I need a fricking whisky to cope with this.”

Craig nodded. “Me too, Liam, me too.”

He also needed to punch something very hard; the waste of life here was making him so angry that it was either punch or weep.

Instead of doing either, he gazed down at the bodies again, trying to decide on their next steps. Normally at a crime scene he would call a doctor to certify the victim and then allocate plenty of time for the CSIs to do their forensic thing. But time was a luxury here for two reasons: one, today’s sea was rough from the wind so spray might destroy any trace evidence on the bodies, and two, the tide would rise in a few hours and possibly carry them out to the depths when it next left.

They would lose the light eventually too; the tell-tale colours of dusk were already tinting the horizon and it grew dim in Ireland long before it got dark. And dark on the north coast meant true dark, with no lights but the stars above to guide their way. Without rigging spotlights, they wouldn’t be able to see a hand in front of their faces, much less their victims.

Spotting the dilemma, Liam decided to offer some of his country-born wisdom.

“Tarpaulins, boss. That’s what we need.”

Craig countered with, “Under or over? We need to disturb the bodies as little as possible.”

The DCS, still only acting up in the rank until he had his promotion board in three weeks’ time but hopeful of permanence, hemmed and hawed for a moment then rubbed his large hands together enthusiastically. Although the cold might have had something to do with it too; April in Ireland was hardly tropical.

“Both.”

Seeing Craig about to cite, ‘Disturbance’ and ‘lost evidence’ he hurried on.

“Hear me out, boss. The Doc should be here soon to give the Vics the once over, yes?”

“Yes. And Grace. I asked for her too.”

Grace Adeyemi was the region’s Head CSI.

Liam took his mobile from his pocket and tapped on it as he went on.

“OK, it says here the tide is due back in two hours, so till then nothing’s going to wash off these three that hasn’t already. Agreed?”

“Yes… but don’t forget the spray. It could dilute our trace evidence.”

“Aye, aye, so I’ll stand between the Vics and the sea and it’ll mostly spray my back.”

A human shower curtain.

“Anyway, that’ll give time for the Doc to certify and Grace to give them the once over before they’re moved to the labs for PM.”

Craig was sceptical. “A very quick once over. And she’ll only get superficial evidence off their front surfaces. That’s if the wind hasn’t already blown even that away.”

“Ach, now there you go being all pessimistic.”

“Realistic, you mean.”

“Tomayto -tomatto. Superficial is all CSIs ever take anyway before a body gets to the labs.”

Craig conceded the point but frowned. His deputy picked up on the expression immediately.

“Now you’re thinking, ‘Ah, but the water and the wee bit of sand in this cove will contaminate whatever Grace gets anyway.’”

Craig chuckled despite himself. “Reading my mind again, are you?”

“Like a comic.” He pointed above Craig’s head. “Look, there’s even a thought bubble. You’re an open book, man.”

The words made them both laugh. Craig was as far from an open book as it was possible to be; his student nickname had been The Sphinx. He’d even got married in secret, only telling his squad months later, something that his deputy never let him forget.

“I appreciate your can-do attitude, Liam, but it won’t alter the geography.”

“Well, we are where we are, boss, so all we can do is try. What do you say?”

Craig admitted defeat with a smile and a shrug.

“OK, so Grace can do her thing with the front of the bodies here, and only over their clothing remember, but what about their backs, Liam? They’re lying on wet shingle.”

The DCS smiled smugly. “And that’s where the tarpaulins come in. The Doc certifies them, Grace does her thing to the front of each lad, then we cover that part with a tarpaulin and flip the bodies over so she can do the same to their backs. Then we pop them, tarps and all, into body bags. Any loose evidence she’ll either have collected already or it will drop out at the labs when they’re unzipped.” He swiped his hands together triumphantly. “Job done.”

Craig considered the suggestion for a moment, gazing at the sky again as he did. It wasn’t a perfect solution and they definitely couldn’t use some oil-stained tarpaulin from a car boot, but with sterile plastic sheeting the idea might just work. Whatever evidence was going to be lost had probably been lost already, so it would be hard to make the situation much worse.

Analysis done; he turned back to his deputy with a smile.

“We’ll use sterile plastic not tarpaulins, but otherwise, yes, great idea. Good thinking, Liam.”

The congratulations were cut short by loud puffing and muttering from above, interspersed with a higher-pitched, “Would you please stop swearing, Doctor Winter! It’s bad enough risking my life like this without the last thing I hear on this earth being profanity!”

The murder detectives looked up to see two jump-suited figures edging cautiously down the narrow cliff path that they themselves had travelled not long before. It hadn’t been fun, partly because the path’s lower third was slick with seaweed, making it a death trap, but even more because whoever had hacked out the rock steps originally must have had tiny feet; theirs hadn’t even fitted side-on.

Seeing from Grace’s deepening scowl that John was still swearing and hearing his expletives more clearly now as he approached, both detectives smirked. John Winter was usually polite to a fault, but not today and Liam couldn’t let the moment pass.

“I’m shocked at you, Doc. I didn’t think you even knew words like that.”

Spotting an ally, although as Liam was a famous joker, she was wary of trusting his support, Grace said, “You see. Even Liam disapproves.”

The DCS feigned offence. “Here now, lady, what’s with the ‘even Liam’? I’ll have you know that I was an altar boy in my youth.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have judged you.”

But the CSI had apologised too soon.

“Apology accepted. But who said I disapproved? I enjoy a good old swear myself.”

Much as it would have been fun to watch Grace explode, as the boss Craig knew he was expected to keep things sweet so he changed the subject hastily.

“Thanks for coming, you two. It’s not an easy descent.”

John dropped his bag at their feet. “You can say that again! Next time just have the bodies winched to the top!”

“Since this is the first time I’ve seen anything like this, John, I’m hoping there won’t be a next. Anyway,” he frowned and indicated the young men at their feet, “here are our victims.”

There was silence for a moment while the newcomers took in the scene, and when the pathologist spoke again it was in a sombre but curious tone.

“Dreadful, but… fascinating… Give me a minute to examine them.”

As he hunkered down beside the first youth and they lost him to another world, the others drew back against the cliff face and Grace gazed first high above her head and then out to sea.

“I don’t know anywhere in Northern Ireland but Belfast…”

The CSI had been born in Nigeria and raised in Glasgow, from where she’d been poached from the Scottish Forensic Services by John’s colleague and her now boss, Doctor Des Marsham.

“… so, where are we? Exactly, I mean.”

Craig motioned his deputy to explain. Liam knew ‘his’ island like the back of his freckled hand and loved every verdant inch of it.

“Ah now, lassie, just down there,” he pointed south, “is where you’ll find The Gobbins.”

Grace pulled a face. “The Gobbins? That sounds disgusting.”

“Here now, none of that! The Gobbins is a place of great natural beauty and they’ve built a walkway along the cliff face just yards above the sea. Gorgeous.”

“Oh right, I might try that. On a warmer day.”

“You’d do well to. And if you fancy a bit of adventure,” he pointed again, this time north, “You should try the Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge. It isn’t as rickety as it was in the good old days, but you can still look down through the slats to see the sea dashing against the rocks.”

Craig smirked. Crossing Carrick-a-rede had been a rite of passage for Northern Irish youth for generations. He’d walked it several times himself when he was a student, with a different girlfriend each time; nothing was guaranteed to make you feel more like a hero than crossing it with someone who screamed even louder than you. Sensibly, Katy, now his wife and the mother of his son, had declined the offer when they were dating. That was the problem with loving someone so damned smart.

Liam’s tourist spiel was cut short suddenly by John rising to his feet.

“I remember in first year when you crossed it with that small redhead, Marc. What was her name?”

The pair had been best friends at school and university and could write a book about each other’s youthful indiscretions.

“Maria.”

“That’s right, Maria. I’m pretty sure they heard her screaming all the way to Scotland. Or was that you?”

Liam smelled gossip. “You must tell me all about that sometime, Doc.”

Craig shook his head briskly.

“No, he must not. OK, John, what have you got for us?”

The pathologist joined them by the cliff wall and huddled into it for warmth.

“I’d say they’re all between eighteen and twenty. The pale boy is possibly the eldest. They all have severe bruising and lacerations, but nothing bad enough to have caused their deaths.”

“What then? Drowning?”

“Unlikely, sadly.”

Liam’s eyebrows shot up. “Sadly? Drowning’s a crappy death, Doc.”

“There are worse, Liam, trust me. And when I say it’s unlikely that they drowned, they may have, I can’t be definitive until the post-mortems, but if they did drown then it didn’t take long. There are no signs of respiratory exhaustion, and none of the bruising that I’ve seen so far fits with them being in the sea and banging against the rocks, and there are plenty of those around here. No, my feeling is that if they were in the sea at all, it was only briefly.”

Craig frowned. “What are you saying, John? Be exact.”

“I’m saying that if they drowned, and that’s a big if, they were drowned.”

“Someone held them under the water, you mean?”

“Possibly but not necessarily. There are no signs of struggling or restraint bruising either.”

Liam gawped at him. “So, they just let themselves be drowned?”

Seeing that the group was lurching between puzzled and frustrated, the pathologist told them precisely what he meant.

“They’d been paralysed, Liam. Each of them has a knife wound in the back of their neck. In the area of C4.”

Craig’s jaw fell. “Someone severed their spinal cords?!”

The pathologist nodded sadly. “It looks that way. But it can’t have happened long before death because there are no signs of muscle atrophy with any of them. As well as causing paralysis C4 injuries can make breathing difficult, so it’s possible that they were paralysed and just left to drown in shallow water, hence the lack of struggle. That’s if they drowned of course, and I won’t know that until we’re back at the lab.”

Liam shook his head. “Whoever did this is one evil git.”

“They are indeed.”

Craig spoke again. “They’re still damp, John, so how can you say that they weren’t in the sea for long?”

“There’s no sea debris on them, for one thing.”

Seeing Grace about to object he added. “No macroscopic sea debris that is. Something may show under a microscope. But there’s no seaweed or spume on them, Marc, and no abrasions from encountering rocks like I said. In fact, as far as I can tell on this limited viewing, they have no recent injuries anywhere but their faces and C4 area. But they do have plenty of healed ones and scars-”

Craig cut in. “And there are no signs of gulls pecking at them.”

“Or fish nibbling. Exactly. Hence, they weren’t in the sea for long, if at all. If pushed, I would say that these boys were deliberately paralysed, perhaps left in shallow water to drown or perhaps poisoned, and then transported here by boat.”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “And deliberately staged with their feet dangling in the water?”

“And with all their eyes turned towards the sky. Look.”

Everyone looked, and as they did so Liam’s expression changed from confusion to disgust.

“The killer wanted us to find them, boss. They expected us to. This is a bloody tableau. Maybe a copy from a book?”

Craig nodded. “I don’t know about a copy, but I think you’re right, Liam. This was staged. So, let’s consider what this all means. The killer clearly knew the tidal flows and probably planned the longest period for someone to find them as is. What time was the tide last high, and what time fully out here this morning, Liam?”

“High around four a.m. this morning and out by around ten.”

“And returning in two hours’ time. Sunrise was around six this morning, so let’s say they’d left the bodies here at high tide, they would have had the cover of darkness.”

“Yep.”

But John shook his head. “If they’d been deliberately left with their feet in the water then, at high tide, then how could their feet still be in the water now with the tide out?”

Craig considered the cove’s geography before answering.

“There are coves in the Mediterranean where something about their structure produces no variation in water level between low and high tide.”

Craig had sailed for years, including on The Med on holidays, so nobody argued.

He gave a small shrug. “But we’ll check to find out if I’m right. OK, what is certain is that whoever did this knew this coastline like the back of their hand, and they knew they could stage the boys like this and ensure a decent window for discovery.”

“They must also have known the coastguard passed here on his rounds, boss. Otherwise, they’d have been relying on fishing boats for discovery and they stay far from shore.”

“Too risky. I agree.”

Grace cut in. “What about someone flying over? Or a satellite might have spotted the bodies.”

Craig nodded. “You’re not wrong, Grace, but being in any cove would have made the bodies harder to detect from the air, and this is a particularly deep one. I’d say they were planning for the coastguard as Liam said.”

John interjected. “And there would have been no passing tourists because the main attractions are miles north and south.”

“Good point. OK…so why choose this cove, and why today?”

Craig walked to the water’s edge and gazed out to sea, trying to make sense of what they’d found.

Who were their victims and why leave their bodies in this place? What was the significance?

He felt the air growing colder suddenly, the chill numbing his cheeks. Perhaps the discomfort would help him focus. He hoped so.

Liam’s voice broke through his thoughts. “I can maybe answer part of your question, boss.”

The one that he’d voiced at least.

“Why this cove?”

“Yep.” The DCS tapped his phone and turned the screen for them all to see. “There was wild wind all along the north coast last night, but not around here.”

“Shelter from the cliffs.”

“Aye, so on this stretch the killer could’ve steered a small boat into the cove safely and not been blown off course.”

“Good. Now, expand on that and get someone to check how many coves there are along this coast, Liam, and how many are tourist spots, overlooked by houses and so on. The killer would’ve wanted anonymity. Darkness would have played a part in that, but perhaps there was more to it that made this particular cove his choice above others along here.”

As the DCS scribbled himself a memo, he murmured, “This one would suit Arty.”

Arty was his nickname for DCI Andy Angel, the unit’s most senior officer after himself. Not only was Andy a talented artist he was also a super-recogniser, an individual who possessed exceptional visual recognition abilities. They had been used in policing to good effect, The Met even having a dedicated unit of them.

Craig nodded. “Yes. Andy’s the perfect choice.”

He turned back to face the group. “Right, so someone killed these three boys, ferried them here at high tide in the dark, arranged their bodies and disappeared. Grace, would you like to start your work while we continue the discussion?”

Just as she got to it, Craig remembered something else. “Liam, phone up to Aidan and get him to send down six sterile plastic sheets and three body bags.”

Aidan was DCI Aidan Hughes, the murder squad’s second ranking chief inspector. He was a highly experienced detective who had been Head of the Vice Squad prior to joining murder several years before.

“They might take him a while to gather, boss.”

“Well, we’re not going anywhere until he does, so chop, chop.”

While Liam made the call, Craig turned back to his friend.

“Any idea how long they’ve been dead, John?”

The pathologist pulled a face.

“There’s no point me checking body temps because this place is like an ice box. Everything will be distorted. But rigor is still full, so I’d say they died anywhere between eight and twenty hours ago. And the lividity is all on their backs, so they either died or were brought here very soon after death.”

“That range fits with our tide and darkness theory. Does anything else strike you about them?”

Something had struck him and he wanted to see whether he was on his own.

“Yes, their cuts and bruises. The only fresh lacerations are facial and the C4 cuts, but there are older ones elsewhere. They’re at different stages of healing and scarring, but I’d say they happened over several weeks and perhaps even months. If it wasn’t for the fact the boys’ hands are nearly unmarked, I would say-”

“That they’d been bare knuckle boxing?”

“Exactly. But there isn’t an abrasion on any of their hands, except for some tiny cuts on the dark-haired boy’s knuckles, Marc. They have none of the callouses, broken or distorted fingers that you’d expect in a fighter.”

“Unless they wore gloves.”

“You think they were boxers?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking yet, John, but I agree with you about the hands. There isn’t a mark on their feet either.”

“Not a mark on their upper surfaces, but take a look at the soles.”

Edging his way past Grace to lift a foot from the water, Craig’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“They’re calloused an inch thick!”

“The other feet are the same. It’s as if they’d been road running for weeks.”

Just then a rope came flying down the cliff with a bundle tied to it and a loud Tarzan call told them that Aidan was probably thumping his chest somewhere above.

The DCI had found their plastic sheeting quickly and as Liam untied the parcel and outlined their idea about using them to Grace, who greeted it sceptically at first but then with a ‘that might work’ shrug, Craig considered their crime scene again.

They had three dead youths with severed spinal cords, fresh facial abrasions, older body scars but mostly unmarked hands and upper feet, who had been deliberately arranged with their eyes gazing up to heaven and their feet dangling in the sea.

If this was a copied tableau it wasn’t one that he’d ever seen.

But staring at their victims wasn’t advancing his thinking any further, so as soon as they were bagged, he called up to Aidan that they were ready to leave, and as the murder squad’s second DCI returned to Belfast with their charges the cove warriors left in search of somewhere warmer to think.

Chapter Two

As luck would have it, they found that warm venue just five miles down the road, in one of those quaint country pubs that people thought only existed in movies but which actually dotted the Irish countryside, albeit at irregular intervals and mostly un-signposted so that unless you happened on one driving past you might easily miss your chance.

Which would be a pity because, along with their quaintness and the often centuries-old artefacts strewn hither and thither as casually as a TV remote might lie around a modern house, such hostelries had a warmth that extended to strangers and didn’t come only from their open fires.

As often as Craig had been in such places they still intrigued and delighted him and, as he watched his deputy survey the small, empty space and then claim a leather armchair by a fire-filled hearth whose mantel was inscribed ‘seventeen-sixty-two’, he smiled.

Even more so when Liam then put his feet up on the fireplace’s bricks and the barmaid didn’t even blink, much less object. On the contrary, as he took the group’s drink orders and walked to the bar to relay them, Craig was certain that he saw her smirk.

“Three pints of mild, whatever you have on tap, and one of cola.” As a teetotaller, Grace had graciously offered to drive them back to town. “And have one for yourself if you like.”

The woman smiled openly this time but shook her head. “Thank you, but no. If I drank every time a customer drank, I wouldn’t be standing for long.”

Craig smiled and rested an elbow on the bar’s well-worn surface, waiting for her to finish pouring the first pint before gesturing towards his deputy and speaking again.

“You don’t mind him having his feet up on your brickwork?”

“Sure, that’s what it’s there for, isn’t it? Everything adds character, even your friend’s muddy hooves.”

A quick glance confirmed that Liam’s shoes were indeed muddy, amazing since the cove had been floored with shale, but then his deputy could get dirty in an empty room.

As Craig watched her pouring the second pint, he indulged his curiosity further.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been here?”

“I don’t mind at all. I’ve been here for ten years, but my family for as long as the fireplace itself.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Since the seventeen-sixties?”

“That’s right. I’m Lorraine Mortimer, and a Mortimer has held the licence here since there were highwaymen on these roads. Of course, there were no roads back then to speak of, just muddy tracks.”

“I didn’t know Ireland had had highwaymen.”

She laughed; a warm, rattling sound that rose up from her chest. It was a sound that Craig was sure had cheered any traveller lucky enough to happen on the pub on a blustery night.

“Well, to be fair they were probably more raiders and smugglers this close to the coast than highwaymen. And I don’t think they were Adam Ant glamorous. But yes, we had our fair share of bad boys around here.” She cast a flirtatious glance towards Liam. “Your friend would have been right at home back then, I’m thinking.”

The thought of Liam dressed as Dick Turpin made Craig burst out laughing, so loudly that his deputy turned for a second; but only for a second because the flames immediately became more interesting again.

John’s curiosity was aroused however, so as Craig paid for the drinks he joined him at the bar, ostensibly to help him carry them across.

“This lady’s family has run the pub since the seventeen-sixties, John.”

The pathologist nodded admiringly. “That’s amazing. I take it that’s when it was built then?”

To both men’s surprise she shook her head. “Renovated. The fireplace was built then, hence the date.”

John, an avid student of history, couldn’t let that pass. “What was it before then?”

Lorraine Mortimer placed the last of their drinks on a tray and leant forward confidingly.

“Immediately before that, it was a shebeen.”

A shebeen, or síbín in Irish, was an illicit bar or club where alcohol was sold without a licence. In centuries past, there had been hundreds dotted around Ireland.

She gestured behind her.

“And around that time rebellious Catholic clergy used to say mass in the field up the back. You can still see the remnants of their cross. There’s a big hedge up there too where the children used to be schooled.”

Hedge schools were secret and illegal schools established in 18th and 19th-century Ireland to provide the rudiments of education to children of 'non-conforming' faiths (Catholic and Presbyterian) who were at that time forbidden by the governing powers to learn.

Liam, who had been listening to every word of the conversation despite his apparent focus on the fire, cut in.

“That was so poor wee Catholics like me could get an education and not grow up ignorant the way their lords and masters would have liked.”

Before either John or Craig could comment, Grace quipped, “Judging by you they failed then.”

The deputy’s howl of indignation was drowned out by the others’ laughs.

“That was a joke, Liam, so don’t come across all persecuted. Besides, don’t try to tell a black African about persecution.”

She had a point, and it was a sobering one that made the group fall silent for a moment.

The ever-ebullient Liam broke it first.

“So, what do you make of our case, boss?”

“Unusual, but…”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “That means you have a theory! Already?”

Craig shook his head hastily and moved across to the fire.

“Keep your voices down, I don’t want the owner to overhear.”

“But you do have a theory, don’t you?”

“Not a theory exactly, but there’s something very odd here, and before Liam says it, I mean beyond the strangeness of finding three dead bodies in a remote cove.”

“Well, spill it then, man!”

The slang made Craig smile. Despite the modernity of his professional methods, John had always been strangely old-fashioned, wearing circular, black-wire glasses that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Victorian times and adopting a ‘young fogey’ dress style when not in his scrubs; crisp three-piece suits with a swish handkerchief and his hair neatly side-parted and smoothed down. The style extended to his speech and manners, the latter always gentlemanly even when his patience was tried, and the former sometimes quaint in its turns of phrase.

‘Spill it then, man’ seemed out of keeping so Craig couldn’t let it pass.

“Spill it? Have you been watching CSI again, John?”

The pathologist looked sheepish. “Natalie bought me the CSI Vegas box-set last week.”

Natalie Ingrams was John’s wife of several years; a challenging and acerbic general surgeon at the local St Mary’s Trust and a complete law unto herself.

The pathologist’s next words were wistful. “I think she secretly wishes that she’d married an American.”

Liam went to speak but bit his tongue. Saying, “No American would have her. They would have more sense” might be his honest opinion but it would hurt the Doc.

“I’m sure she doesn’t. OK, then, I’ll spill it, but first I have question for you, John. What killed our victims?”

The medic shook his head. “You know that I can’t say definitively until after their PMs.”

“OK, let’s take it another way then. We know they were deliberately paralysed but you don’t think that killed them?”

“No. The cuts were too low to have knocked out respiration completely.”

“So, not death by suffocation. But you also don’t believe that they drowned or were drowned?”

The pathologist pulled a face. “I’m torn on that one. I don’t think they fell into the sea and drowned for all the reasons that I’ve already outlined, but until I examine their lungs I can’t say for sure if they were left in water and drowned because of their paralysis-”

Grace cut in. “Which would explain no signs of a struggle.”

“Yes, but not the lack of any sea debris if it happened in the sea.”

Craig came back in. “And you’re certain that none of their injuries came from sea trauma?”

“Positive. Even the newest abrasions on their faces were over a day old. Sea injuries would have been more recent.”

Craig nodded thoughtfully. “And you won’t be able to rule out death by drugs or poisons until you do their tox screens.”

“True, but I’m leaning more towards those than drowning at the moment.”

Liam roused himself from his fire-gazing. “Because?”

“Because their deaths appear to have been atraumatic. Emotionally I mean.”

Anticipating a chorus of objections, he raised a hand to stop them.

“Let me explain before you all tell me that I’m wrong.”

Craig scoffed at the suggestion. No-one ever told John that he was wrong about cause of death because they didn’t possess the knowledge to do so, but he was interested to hear how he’d concluded the men’s deaths had been atraumatic given where and how they had been found.

“Right, so… let’s leave aside that we found them lying in a cove with their feet deliberately arranged in the sea, and that they had old bruising and had suffered spinal cord damage…”

Liam rolled his eyes. The more the pathologist said, the more traumatic he made the deaths sound.

“…Their final injuries, I mean the ones that stopped their hearts and caused death, weren’t by gunshot, stabbing, strangulation, or even suffocation. OK, they couldn’t move their hands at the end but there were no broken nails to show that they’d ever tried to rip their killer’s hands or a bag away, and there was no gasping appearance or central cyanosis to show me that they’d lacked oxygen in their final moments. They looked almost peaceful in death. At rest. Less so the dark-haired boy perhaps, but definitely the other two. Tell me I’m not the only one who noticed that?”

After a moment with no responses, Craig shook his head. “You aren’t. At rest is exactly the phrase that’s been on my mind since I saw them. Or at peace.”

Liam gawped, first at one man and then the other. “You’re talking like they were euthanised!”

John mulled over the suggestion. “Perhaps… but not in the sense that they agreed to it. It was very unlikely to have been voluntary.”

As Grace echoed, “Euthanised” in a horrified voice, Craig gave a slow nod.

“That might fit, John.”

The devout Baptist CSI couldn’t let it stand. “Euthanasia is a sin!”

Craig didn’t know what he felt on the morality of the subject if people were suffering terribly, but that clearly hadn’t been the situation here. Their victims had been fit, young men.

“Here, definitely, Grace. These were healthy people. Weren’t they, John?”

“They certainly looked that way, but I-”

Liam finished the sentence for him. “Won’t be able to say until after the PM. Aye, we all understand that, Doc, but they looked fit, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, not the usual candidates for voluntarily ending their lives, regardless of morality.”

Grace glared at him. “You make morality sound optional!”

Craig shook his head. “Not the time for that debate.”

Liam rose to his feet. “Or if it is, I’ll need a lot more drink on board. Same again, everyone?”

The pause for ordering and delivery introduced a much-needed pause in the conversation, and only when Lorraine Mortimer had retreated into a back room did Craig speak again.

“OK. We have three, fit looking, young men who’d obviously suffered trauma ante-mortem, were deliberately paralysed, and then killed by some method that left them looking almost serene-”

Liam shook his head. “I agree with the Doc, boss. The dark-haired lad didn’t look as serene as the others.”

He turned his phone for them to see a close-up that he’d taken of the victims’ faces.

Grace nodded. “Liam’s right. The dark boy almost looks like he was in pain at the end. See. There.” She pointed to his jaw. “His lower facial muscles are contorted. Like he was clenching his teeth in pain.”

“I can see that now. But if we agree there’s a difference between the boys’ serenity at the end, then why was that? Why were his last moments more painful than the others’?”

The CSI sighed. “Some bizarre ritual that only he was subjected to?”

“To be confirmed by John’s PM. But let’s say you’re right. That raises additional questions.”

Just then, Liam set down his pint and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, much to Grace’s disgust, disgust that she made obvious by pushing a paper hankie into his hand.

“What’s this? Oh, right. Thanks, Mum. Anyway, I’m guessing that two of your add-on questions will be why and who, boss? And by who, I mean what sort of creep would facilitate something like this? If it was euthanasia, I mean.”

“Exactly. Just to be clear, I don’t believe euthanasia in the true sense has anything to do with this, and I also don’t think we’re talking creep singular here, Liam. Our victims weren’t small men, so it would have been hard for one person to carry them into the cove alone.”

“But possible.”

Craig conceded with a shrug. “Possible if they were Thor perhaps, but I’m still leaning towards more than one person being involved here. And men, not women. But don’t ask me why I’m saying that right now. I’ll need some time back at the office to process my thoughts.”

“Creeps plural then. OK.”

Grace, having recovered from the sleeve-wiping trauma, decided to point something out.

“The fronts of their bodies were wet.”

Craig wrinkled his forehead, puzzled. “Yes...”

“All over, I mean. Not just their feet.”

His interest was piqued. “And you think that’s significant?”

“Well, of course it is.”

Her ‘Duh’ was silent, but only just.

“If they were ferried to the cove by boat and then carried on to the shingle, then why were they wet? Especially if we’re leaning towards them not having drowned.”

John had a suggestion. “Sea spray?”

“That would have caused a light dampness at most.”

Liam came back in. “Maybe it rained on them after they were left there. You saw their backs when they were turned on to the tarpaulins, Grace. Were they wet too?”

She looked embarrassed “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice. To be honest, the whole thing was so ugly that I closed my eyes for a moment. The shale beneath one of them was wet if that helps.”

John patted her shoulder kindly. “Not to worry. We can easily test the residue on their clothes. The point is that you noticed they were wet so we know to do the tests now. Good catch.”

He turned to Craig. “What really puzzles me is the distribution and differing ages of their injuries, Marc.”

Liam pulled a face at the explanation that sprang to his mind, and Craig’s as well judging by the look they exchanged.

Craig nodded his deputy to explain.

“They might have been beaten, Doc. With injuries of different ages but no defensive wounds it could fit.”

John’s eyes saucered. “You’re saying that someone used them as punchbags? That’s disgusting!”

Craig nodded. “It is, but we’ve all seen similar injuries before. In child abuse cases. We’ll need full body X-rays John. They could have old fractures.”

The thought silenced everyone for a moment, then Craig returned to his theorising.

“Leaving aside all the scientific details you’ll give us, the crime scene itself tells us something about our killer-stroke-killers. They were highly organised. There was nothing impulsive about the way those bodies were arranged, or the timing of when they were left.”

John nodded. “I agree. So?”

“So, we’re not dealing with a killer who suddenly lost control and lashed out. These murders and disposals were planned.”

Liam nodded. “You’re saying the killers were psychopaths not psychotics.”

“Exactly. At least one of them. Expand on what that means here, Liam. It could be a question at your promotion board.”

The deputy pulled a face at the reminder; the exam was feeling more like the Sword of Damocles by the day.

“I’ll have a go, boss, but nobody’s to jump down my throat if I get it wrong. Right… if they’re a psychopath they’re more likely to be male. Also, intelligent.”

Craig nodded encouragingly.

“And violent in other ways, maybe since they were very young. There might have been other signs too. Fire setting, animal mutilation and en…en… bed-wetting.”

“The psychopathic triad. The word you were looking for was enuresis, Liam, but bed-wetting does just as well. You’re right on all of that, but what’s the most relevant thing to our case?”

“A psychopath is likely to have done this before, and they’re likely to do it again. As often as they can manage until they’re dead or in jail.”

“Exactly. We need to search for similar cases, so make a note for Davy, please.”

Davy Walsh was their senior analyst and the team’s go-to for facts.

Just then Craig jumped at an unexpected hand on his shoulder and turned to find Lorraine Mortimer gazing down at him, her expression saying that despite them speaking quietly she had overheard some of their words.

He rose, getting ready to apologise and tell her that she couldn’t repeat anything that she’d overheard when she said, “Child abuse?” in a quivering voice that said their earlier mention of the subject had struck something beyond the usual chord.

“Please don’t take anything that you’ve heard out of context, Ms Mortimer. We’re on a police investigation.”

As he said the words, he was kicking himself for discussing something so important in public, but in his defence, they’d been in the cold and wet for over an hour and had needed somewhere warm to debrief.

“I thought that and I understand, but please, you must answer me one question. Do you know about the summer camp that used to be west of here, near Marymena village?”

Liam joined Craig on his feet, but in his case to pull up a chair so that the barmaid could sit down.

“Tell us more.”

She took the seat gratefully and continued. “Excuse me if I ramble a bit, but it was so traumatic for the district, even for those of us who weren’t directly affected because we didn’t have children.”

Craig gave a sigh of relief; at least his carelessness wasn’t making the woman relive a personal grief.

“Tell us everything that you know.”

The story came in fits and starts.

“The camp had been running for well over a decade and everyone in the area knew about it and welcomed it. Well… it was so lovely to see the kiddies in their little uniforms when you went into the village.” She smiled, recalling. “They used to march about in a crocodile.”

“What ages are we talking about?”

“I’d say between seven and fourteen, but I’m no expert. Boys, only boys. I don’t think there was a camp for girls-”

Liam cut in. “Can you describe their uniforms? Were they scouts?”

“Not like you see on TV, but a church version of it, I suppose. It was run by one of the evangelical movements, one that I’d never heard of to be honest. The Church of Regus it was called. The boys came every summer, on some kind of retreat.”

Craig glanced at Grace to see if she recognised the church’s name but she shook her head.

“I think the camp was quite strict and old-fashioned. That’s no bad thing of course, and the children were always well turned out and polite so I suppose the approach must have worked. But I did long to see them running around and carrying on a bit, and not one of the wee things smiled. They just used to march into the village looking solemn and then march back out to the camp again.”

She shook her head sadly. “And not a single laugh between them.”

The hairs on Craig’s neck shot up. His son Luca did nothing but laugh and run around like a mad thing. Much as he would have loved peace and quiet occasionally, he felt more grateful for that madness now than he could say.

Liam had another question. “Who led the crocodile? An adult?”

“No. It was always led by older boys, the fourteen-year-olds I would guess, but I know there were adults at the camp because I saw a cleric in the village once or twice.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “Miserable looking thing he was too. Not much of the joy of God in that one.”

Liam empathised. He’d been taught by a religious order and by the way some of them had wielded the strap their Christianity had been falsely advertised.

John raised the reason that she’d approached them. “You said child abuse and looked very upset. Can you tell us why? Apart from the fact that it’s disgusting, of course.”

The barmaid’s response was a shudder so violent that Craig could almost feel the air that she’d disturbed.

“Bastards! That’s why! You know I said that the camp used to be here, well that’s the reason it was shut dow-”

Craig cut in. “They were abusing the boys? How? Sexually or physically?”

She physically recoiled. “God no, not sexually! Or at least not that I heard!”

“What exactly did you hear? It could be important to our investigation.”

“What are you investigating?”

She hadn’t heard what he’d said about their case!

It was going to stay that way, so Craig shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, I can’t disclose that, but please continue. Tell us everything that you know about the camp.”

By the time they left the pub forty minutes later the full, ghastly tale of misguided zealotry had been told. Thankfully some of the boys had had parents who’d cared more about them than discipline or religion and had come to collect them, finding physical injuries on their sons that the camp’s claims of ‘rough and tumble’ simply couldn’t sustain.

A joint police and social services investigation had ensued and found systematic abuse on all ages of boys, using techniques of which a Russian gulag would have been proud: public floggings, isolation cells, virtual brainwashing, and prayers that had gone on for hours while the children had been forced to cross rough terrain on their hands and knees.

The place had finally been closed in twenty-thirteen and its director censured but not prosecuted. None of his deputies had even been called to account.

Davy would soon find where they’d gone.

On the drive back to Belfast, John said what they were all thinking.

“Perhaps someone didn’t get their fill of sadism at the camp and that’s what we saw playing out in the cove?”

Craig didn’t rush to nod. It seemed too neat an explanation for what they’d found.

Liam noticed his lack of comment.

“You don’t agree, boss?”

Craig pulled a face. “I don’t disagree, and we need to rule it out of course by finding out exactly what happened there, but if our creep or creeps did have links with the camp then why do this now, a decade later? And this is a hell of an escalation don’t you think? From over-zealous discipline to multiple murder?”

John shook his head. “Two words, Marc. Spanish Inquisition. You either saw God their way back then or they tortured and burned you as a heretic. I have a set of their thumbscrews back at the lab if you’d like to see them.”

The pathologist was an avid collector of old medical and sometimes torture implements, often the same thing in the past, which he displayed in a cabinet in his outer office at the lab.

Craig’s expression said that he remained unconvinced, so he changed the topic by asking his deputy a question.

“Liam. how come you’ve never heard of this camp when you know everyone in Northern Ireland?”

His deputy had been policing in the region for thirty years and seemed to know every person they came across, police or villain.

“I never said I knew everyone!”

John shook his head. “Just let me stop you there, Liam. I’ve heard you say exactly that many times. In fact, on the last telling I believe you added, ‘There isn’t a bad lad in the six counties that hasn’t had my boot up his ass.’”

Remembering that Grace was there he muttered a hurried, “Sorry” only to be surprised by her response.

“There were asses in Jerusalem, I believe, Doctor Winter. Although perhaps they called them donkeys back then.”

Craig couldn’t see her expression but he heard the amused undertone in her words.

“Now, now, Grace, don’t let these bad men corrupt you. A year ago, you would have told John off for saying that, not joined in.”

She gave a sigh that would have done a martyr proud.

“Yes, well, I’m starting to realise that when in Rome you can waste an awful lot of time and energy arguing with the Romans, and currently in this car bad men outnumber me three to one.”

Craig chuckled. “That’s us told. Right, Liam, back to why you’d never heard of the camp.”

The DCS tutted irritably. “Ach, well, I don’t know, do I? I mean how can you know about everything that happened miles away?”

Craig smirked. “And you the King of Ireland too.”

“Aye well, if it had happened in Belfast or Crossgar I’d have known about it in a heartbeat.”

Crossgar was where the deputy has been raised, on a farm.

“OK, you’re forgiven. Second question. What was the name of the Antrim officer who summoned us today? And why weren’t they at the crime scene when we arrived?”

When Liam turned immediately to gaze out the window, everyone knew that they were about to hear a fudge.

“’Cos I told them they didn’t need to attend, didn’t I. I’d checked the map and knew the cove was small, so we mightn’t all have fitted in.” He added, “But I’ll keep them updated” so brightly that Craig knew he’d just thought up the idea to add weight to his defence.

Well-used to his deputy’s various ploys and dodges, he was undeterred. “Their name, Liam. Now.”

The response was a tutted, “Ach, I can’t remember! I mean, what’s a name when all’s said and done? Let’s call them Eileen. Aye, that’ll do. Eileen. The coastguard alerted Antrim station about the bodies, Eileen went to the cliff to look, and when she reported it to us, Nicky transferred the call to me.”

Nicky Morris was Craig’s long-suffering but very efficient PA.

Craig responded in an amused tone. “So, Nicky transferred the call from this Eileen to you?”

“Aye. That’s it. And the rest you know.”

Craig knew only that he was being fibbed to; to call it a lie would have been too strong as he hadn’t yet worked out his deputy’s motive for deflecting, but he suspected that it was for the sake of a quiet life and that his secretary was in on the plan.

He also knew that Liam wouldn’t be able to even fib effectively to his face, so he said sternly, “Please turn and face me, Liam.”

What followed was a slow-motion capture of reluctance with a side order of performative desperation as he watched his deputy’s mind race to create a story to back up his words.

“Who was the Antrim officer, Liam?”

“I said, didn’t I? Eileen.”

“Well, it was a woman, I believe that much.”

John understood what was happening and that he probably shouldn’t interrupt, but his friend’s certainty on the gender made him curious.

“You believe that it was a woman but you don’t believe her name, Marc? Surely if you don’t believe what Liam’s saying then it might actually have been a man?”

Craig shook his head. “Nope. Two lies would be a step too far. Liam’s a hopeless liar, so he could never juggle two at once.”

“I am not a hopeless liar!”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Being a liar is a bad thing, Liam.”

“Well, I’m still not hopeless at it!”

Ignoring the intervention, Craig went on.

“But he obviously didn’t want to tell me who the officer really was so all his available focus had to go into giving me a false name, which means that her gender is correct. So…her real name, Liam. Now.”

The deputy’s next tut was so loud that for a moment Grace thought she’d hit something, then the truth came blurting out.

“Her name was Julia Thomas! That’s Julia McNulty as was. Are you happy now?”

Craig was startled into silence.

John wasn’t and he started to laugh.

“Oh my God, Marc, Katy will kill you!”

Katy was the love of Craig’s life, but Julia… tall, fire-haired, cherub-faced, hard-talking Julia was a significant old flame.

They’d dated for years and only really parted because of geography; Julia had wanted them to live in the north-west and Craig had deliberately based himself in Belfast on his return from London to be close to his aging parents who lived in Holywood, just outside town.

They needed him close so he hadn’t been prepared to move again.

John was on a roll now. “I mean, working with your ex?! Natalie would slaughter me.”

Having spent time trying to minimise the damage, Liam was less than amused that the pathologist now seemed to be revelling in making it worse, so he hit back with, “You don’t have any exes!”

It took the wind out of John’s sails instantly, and as he struggled to recover, he blustered, “How do you know? I mean, I had lots of girlfriends before I got married. Marc will tell you.”

“Nursery school doesn’t count, Doc.”

Leaving the medic indignant and muttering, “It wasn’t at nursery school. Tell him it wasn’t, Marc,” Liam turned back to his boss.

“Nicky and I decided it would be better not to mention her-”

He was stopped by the knowing smile spreading across Craig’s tanned face. A fond smile that if he showed it at home might get him into all sorts of trouble.

The deputy’s next words came in a warning tone. “Now, don’t you go looking like that, boss. She’s married. Hell, you’re married, and…”

Not wanting his DCS to burst a blood vessel, Craig waved him down.

“Relax, Liam. I know when I’m well off. But Julia and I were friends, and I can just speak to a woman without running amok you know.”

“So you say. Anyway, there’s no need for you to speak to anyone at Antrim now. The Vics are on their way back to Belfast, so job done.”

Craig’s mind was still on his past love. “What rank is she now?”

“DCI. And she has two kids with her surgeon husband and she’s very happy. Very, very happy.”

Craig smirked. “I’m sure she is, Liam, as am I. God, you don’t trust me much, do you? Is that about me or about what you might do if you happened to meet an old flame? What do you think, John?”

The pathologist snapped, “Him!” then returned to his mutterings of, “nursery school indeed.”

They were approaching the labs, so Grace indicated to turn off then re-joined the chat.

“I’ve stayed friends with both of my ex-fiancés. We still exchange Christmas cards.”

The focus in the car swung instantly from Craig to the CSI and Liam got in first.

“You were engaged? Twice?”

“Well, don’t sound so shocked! Some men find me very attractive you know.”

“I’m sure they do, but twice? I’d never even heard about once before now!”

Craig smirked. “It’s called a private life for a reason, Liam, so don’t be nosy.” He then proceeded to be nosy himself. “If you don’t mind me asking, Grace, are they here or back in Glasgow?”

“One in Glasgow and one in Lagos, where my family’s from originally. Safe distances, thank you very much.”

Liam gave a loud, “A-HA!”

“A-ha what?”

“A-ha, you’ve just made my point. Exes are all right at a safe distance but you don’t want to go having coffee with them, just in case you were thinking about it, boss.”

“I wasn’t actually, but I might now, so thanks for the suggestion.”

“I’ll tell Katy!”

“I’ll tell Katy and I’ll tell her that the coffee was your idea.”

John’s smirk said that he’d just scored a point for him as well.

But it was getting late so anything more would have to wait until tomorrow.

When Grace had parked Liam’s Ford in the labs’ carpark and they’d all clambered out, she waved farewell with a droll, “Just so you know, my earlier comment about Romans has been amended to toddlers after that conversation.”

An hour later Craig was at home playing with a toddler of his own.

Chapter Three

The CCU. Saturday. 9 a.m.

When Craig arrived in the squad-room, thirty minutes later than usual because he’d detoured to headquarters to satisfy the Chief Constable’s request for an update, both of them working a bank holiday weekend for the Nth time in their careers and trying desperately to ignore the world outside enjoying itself, he passed his PA with a cheerful wave and headed for his office, only to change his mind suddenly and retrace his steps to give her a ‘look’.

Not a nasty look or even a knowing look, but a questioning look that said, “Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

Whether she was being challenging or just had other things on her mind, she gave him an even more questioning look in return, adding a droll, “Yes, sir?” for good measure to which Craig deliberately didn’t respond.

After seconds of curious silence had passed between them, Nicky sat back grinning and folded her arms.

“So, we’re playing the ‘read my mind’ game are we, sir? OK… so maybe you’d like me to make a call for you? Or retrieve a file? Or perhaps you’d like me to book a meeting room for some day next week?”

When Craig held his silence, her husky voice grew irritable.

“Maybe a dark room so we could hold a séance that might tell me what it is that you’d like me to do?!”

Just at that moment Liam walked in and, spotting that the PA was seconds from saying something she might regret, he hastily intervened.

“Sorry, Nick. He knows about Julia.”

Her ire was immediately re-aimed. “You told him?! When we’d agreed not to tell him, to save him-”

Craig cut across her. “From himself? Did you honestly think I needed that, Nicky?”

In response she half-rose in her seat, her voice rising in pitch as well. “That wasn’t it at all!”

Spotting Aidan listening, Craig beckoned the quarrelling pair into his office, continuing the conversation as if there hadn’t been a pause.

“If not that, then what?”

“I just thought it might annoy you to hear from her, or, or, even about her! She was always picking fights when you were together!”

“She was not!”

Liam scoffed at him. “She bloody was, boss. You’d come in like a bear with a sore head some Mondays after a weekend of it.”

Startled by the words, Craig thudded heavily into his chair. “Did I? I don’t remember that.”

Nicky warmed to her theme. “Don’t you? Well, you should have been in the audience. What about when she wanted you to move to Limavady? Limavady! I mean, for goodness’ sake, it’s the country!”

Liam turned on her. “What’s wrong with the country? I’m from the country!”

“Well, we all know that.”

His eyes narrowed, making her hastily move on.

“But, well, I mean you don’t live there now, Liam, do you? And there must be a reason for that, mustn’t there?”

As a Belfast girl born-and-bred the thought of endless fields and farms made the secretary shudder. If she travelled more than five miles from a shopping centre, she started to itch.

Suddenly Nicky thought of something and added it with a flourish. “And you won’t move back there when you retire, I bet.”

The deputy shuffled his feet. “Well, no, but that’s only because Danni’s from Belfast and she likes being close to her mum.”

“I bet it isn’t just that.”

Craig had had enough of the town and country debate and brought them back to the original point.

“I don’t recall ever being grumpy after a weekend. I’m only ever grumpy for a good reason.”

When a snort of derision from his PA said, ‘In your dreams’ he turned to his deputy for support.

“Back me up here, Liam.”

“I’d love to, boss, but the lassie’s right. You were fierce some Monday mornings back then.”

Admitting nothing, Craig asked tentatively, “But not now?”

Two “No” s came at once, with Nicky adding smugly, “Katy’s a good influence.”

“And boy did you need one, boss. Before you met her you were kipping on your couch surrounded by pizza boxes, man! Even I was disgusted and my standards are low.”

When Nicky’s mouth immediately re-opened, he added, “And don’t say that’s because I’m from the country or you’ll be dicing with death!”

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to say, we were just trying to protect you, sir, by not mentioning that the referring officer was Julia. DCI Thomas, I mean.”

Craig smiled. “I know you were, Nicky, but please don’t be concerned for my feelings. We’re both happily married now, so if I need to speak to her during this case I will.”

Just then the phone on the PA’s desk rang and she went to answer it.

“What’re the odds that’s Julia, boss?”

Before Craig could speculate Nicky reappeared. “It’s Doctor Winter, sir, asking could you come to the labs.”

As Liam mouthed, “Thank God for that,” Craig shook his head.

“First, I need to check who’s in and allocate some work.”

Emerging from his office, Craig beckoned everyone to gather round. Only Annette Eakin, his third DCI, hadn’t arrived.

“Good morning, everyone. First, I’m sorry you’re having to work the bank holiday weekend. It’s just the way the rota fell. Second, does anyone know where Annette is? She’s normally on time.”

Nicky’s voice came from behind him.

“On holiday with Mike in Greece. You signed her annual leave form weeks ago.”

She and pathologist Mike Augustus had been a couple for years and had a young daughter together.

“Ah, yes, I remember now. They’re touring the islands. Very nice.”

Liam rolled his eyes at the comment. “How can it be nice? It’s abroad.”

To the DCS, who rarely left his native soil and never voluntarily, everything outside Ireland was ‘foreign’ or ‘abroad’.

Craig on the other hand was an avid traveller who’d spent every childhood summer in Italy with his mother’s family and sailing with his father.

“You’ll never know, Liam, but Greece is beautiful.”

He rubbed his hands together briskly to signal that they were moving on.

“Right, everyone, this will be quick. We have a new case. A triple murder that we were called to yesterday by an Antrim DCI. DCI Julia Thomas.”

He searched for signs of recognition from the gathered detectives but found none, although that could have been because Andy was engrossed in peeling foil off a bar of chocolate, his first of several each day, Aidan was busy shuffling a pile of paper, and Mary Li, the squad’s young detective constable, was inspecting today’s choice of nail varnish; a startlingly vivid shade of purple that he was sure went by some equally florid name.

Only Ryan Hendron, the squad’s inspector, seemed to be listening, something that Craig decided to point out.

“It seems that only Ryan is paying attention, so Aidan, tell me what I just said, please.”

When, “A triple murder that we were called to yesterday by an Antrim DCI. DCI Julia Thomas.” came back verbatim, Craig decided to quit while he was ahead, although his escape was delayed momentarily by Aidan’s droll, “We can multitask, guv” post-script.

“Clearly. OK, the odd thing about these deaths, as well as being multiple, was that the bodies were found carefully laid out in a small, shingled cove on the Antrim coast.”

The information raised several eyebrows and even made Mary look up from her nails.

“So… Andy, I’d like you to look at the geography on this one. Map out the major coves around Northern Ireland and Ireland, then GB, the Isle of Man and so on.”

He turned to where his two analysts were huddled together viewing something on a smartpad and focused first on Davy, their leader.

“Davy, would you share the crime scene photos with everyone, please, then I’d like you looking for murders even tangentially similar in Ireland, GB and the islands.”

His gaze shifted to Ash Rahman, the squad’s junior analyst. “Ash, I’d like you to check further afield. Single or multiple coastal deaths and displays anywhere in the world.”

The analyst pushed back his hat before responding, hats being his fashion signature. Today’s was a logoed baseball cap that his cousin had brought him from Disney World.

“Cool. Coast, bodies, and a few other words in the search engine should pull those up no problem.”

“Good. Once you’ve got a longlist, I want it refined. Davy, that applies to everywhere inside and outside Ireland.”

Andy hastily swallowed the piece of chocolate that he’d been letting melt on his tongue and said what everyone was thinking.

“Refine how, chief?”

Craig cast a wary glance at his PA, certain she wasn’t going to like his response.

“All three victims were males approximately eighteen to twenty years old…”

He could feel Nicky wincing from where he sat; she had a son that age.

“…and when you view the crime scene photos, you’ll see that they were staged with their bare feet deliberately resting in the waters of the Irish Sea.”

Ignoring the rising eyebrows, he continued, “But, although on this occasion all the victims were male, we can’t yet know how relevant that is so don’t limit gender in your searches. Refine using their age-range first.”

Seeing Liam about to question his words, Craig shook his head and went on.

“We need those short-lists generated quickly, so I’d like everyone to park your own tasks and help Davy and Ash for an hour. Davy will tell you how. Liam and I are heading to the labs and we’ll need those lists when we get back.”

As everyone turned to their computers, Craig beckoned to his chief analyst to the front.

“I’d like you to do something else too, Davy.”

“But you don’t want the others to know?”

“Not yet. It may contaminate their searches and I don’t want that. Liam will explain what’s needed.”

As his deputy laid out what they knew about the evangelical summer camp and what more they needed to know, Craig turned back to his PA.

“Thanks for worrying about me yesterday, Nicky, but you really don’t need to.”

She shook her head.

“It’s my job to worry about you, sir, and everyone on this team. You might all have big brains but when common sense was being handed out some of you were at the back of the queue.” She sniffed meaningfully. “Besides, I know women. You might think you’re invincible but women can wriggle under your armour even when you don’t want them to, and that DCI Thomas is a definite wriggler.”

An image of Julia limbo dancing sprang immediately to mind, making Craig smirk.

Nicky noticed the expression and knew exactly what it was about.

“That! That smirk right there. That’s what I mean.” She pursed her lips primly. “Resist temptation, sir. You’ll come to a sticky end if you don’t.”

“Thanks, Nostradamus.”

He saw Liam jerking a thumb towards the door and seized on the rescue gratefully.

“Right, we’re off, Nick. Let Doctor Winter know that we’re on our way.”

He didn’t dare look back from the lift in case she was brandishing a burning sword.

Chapter Four

The Regional Laboratories. (The Labs). Pathology Department.

When the detectives arrived at John Winter’s small but always tidy office, the only part of the pathologist that they could see was the gelled tip of his brown hair sticking up from behind his desk.

A squeezed, “Help yourselves to coffee. I’ll be with you in a minute” confirmed that he was busy.

But he wasn’t with them in a minute.

The process of Craig making himself an espresso and Liam a ‘coffee with froth’, as he called it, the only variety of the drink he could abide and only ever grudgingly accepted when there was no tea, took at least that time and quite a bit longer and yet still John was huddled behind his desk doing who knew what.

Craig wanted to know, so he decided that if you can’t beat them join them and hunkered down to see what his friend was up to, only to be disappointed that he wasn’t retrieving something valuable or even interesting but was tapping the floor with the tip of his forefinger and examining it after each tap.

“No! Natalie finally talked you into them?”

Feeling left out, Liam stuck his head under the mahogany desk as well, making things very crowded.

“Into what, boss?”

“If I’m not mistaken, John has been trying out contact lenses and he’s lost one.”

The medic instantly stopped what he was doing and stared at them in surprise.

“How did you know?”

“The tapping. I’ve seen lots of people doing it.”

Bored with the conversation already, Liam decided that it required a fix, so he turned on his phone-torch, leant down further until his face was almost touching the floor and shone the light parallel to its government-issue wood veneer.

Within seconds, “To your right, Doc, by the desk leg. No, over… over a bit more… yep, tap there” squeezed out from his compacted chest.

Finding the errant lens almost immediately, John was gawping in awe when the others joined him on the vertical.

“That was brilliant, Liam!”

“Yeh, well, I am you know, but to be fair this isn’t my first time finding a lens. Danni’s been wearing them for years so we go through that bloody rigmarole every other week.”

Popping the object and its partner back in their case, the pathologist retrieved his glasses from his lab coat and placed them almost reverently on his nose.

“Much better. I don’t know why Natalie’s hell bent on me trying lenses anyway. I think I look better in these.”

He did, but rather than say anything that might cause marital discord, there having been enough of that in John’s marriage already to do them all for a lifetime, Craig just shrugged and sipped his drink.

Liam saw a chance to change the subject.

“You wanted to see us about the case, Doc?”

The medic’s expression morphed quickly from happy to a mixture of sadness and disgust.

“Yes, unfortunately. And it’s not good news.”

“But how can you have PM-ed all the Vics already, Doc? It’s barely ten o’clock.”

“I haven’t performed their full PMs yet, but I have done an initial sweep.”

Craig motioned him to continue, but the pathologist poured himself a fresh cup of coffee before speaking again. Dutch courage of a sort?

“Right… well, I thought I would get an early start, because I knew you’d like something quickly to get on with. But Liam’s right. Each PM takes hours so that approach wouldn’t have helped you until this afternoon, and what with Mike being on holiday it might even have been this eve-”

Craig interrupted, knowing procrastination when he heard it. “So, you did superficial examinations of all three men.”

“Exactly.”

Taking a seat back behind his desk, John opened its top drawer and withdrew a file.

“I’ll take them in order, from left to right in this image.”

A photograph of their victims appeared; lying on steel trolleys with only their faces exposed.

“OK, number one, the boy with fair hair. I took samples from his lungs and there was no water.”

“At all?”

“None. He’d never been in the sea, or in any water in fact, and neither had the other two. Their lungs were clear-”

Liam cut in.

“So why were they paralysed, Doc? Why paralyse someone unless you’re planning to do something nasty to them and don’t want them to fight back?”

The pathologist’s response was to turn to Craig. “Care to take that?”

The response was a weary sigh. “Sadism, Liam. They wanted to see the boys’ fear and horror as they paralysed them. To watch them realise that either they would be spending the rest of their lives in wheelchairs or the paralysis was a prelude to something even worse. Death.”

“Bastards!”

“No argument there. But if they didn’t drown the lads after they disabled them then how did they die, John?”

The medic took another photograph from the file.

“I found recent injection sites on all three boys. Behind their ears. You can see one of them here. I don’t know which drug or poison was used yet but Des will soon find out…”

Des Marsham was Head of Forensics for the region and Grace’s boss. They worked together out of offices on the lab building’s third floor.

“…I excised the injection sites and sent them upstairs with the victims’ tox-screens an hour ago. And before you ask, no, he doesn’t have anything for you yet. He phoned down to say so when he saw you parking.”

Craig smiled tightly, then rose and began pacing the small room.

“Beaten, paralysed and injected.” He gave a tut of disgust. “Just when you think you’ve seen the worst of humanity.”

He stopped pacing suddenly to shake his head and noticed that his deputy was shaking his too, but had a quizzical not a disgusted expression on his face.

“Penny for your thoughts, Liam.”

“Aye…”

The word hung in the air without follow-up and they all let it hang, voicing as it did everyone’s despair at the crime.

When Craig decided it had hung there long enough, he motioned testily at his deputy to move on.

“Aye, well, I’m just trying to picture something, boss. Let’s just take one of these three lads. It could be any one of them because they were all fit, young, and well-nourished if I’m not mistaken, weren’t they, Doc?”

“Absolutely. Perfect musculature, skin, and teeth.”

“So, well-cared for, would you say?”

“I would. There were no signs of homelessness or neglect with any of them. Although I noticed something else on the pale boy that I’ll need to investigate further.”

Craig arched an eyebrow quizzically, but when no more detail was forthcoming, he nodded Liam to continue.

“OK then. So, just taking one lad. We have this well-cared-for lad, and for weeks, maybe months, he’s held prisoner somewhere. Yes?”

“Months judging by their oldest wounds. Around two months I would say. For all of them.”

“Cared for and two months missing, so why wasn’t it reported? Or was it? I’ve not seen reports of any misspers in Northern Ireland that would fit, have you, boss?”

“No, I haven’t. And that’s a very good point.”

Craig lifted a marker and commandeered the pathologist’s board.

“We need to check missing persons: local, regional and superregional, Liam.”

John pulled a face. “But the boys were all working or university age, Marc, so perhaps they weren’t reported missing. You used to disappear for weeks with some girl or another when you were a student and you lived at home in your first two years! Did your parents ever report you missing?”

When Craig shook his head, the pathologist continued, “And if you’d been living in university halls or a flat instead of at home, no-one might have known that you were missing for a whole term.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t that bad. And anyway, if I’d gone more than a week without phoning home my folks would’ve tracked you down to ask where I was.”

John shuddered. Craig’s mother Mirella was a force to be reckoned with, and the fact that she spoke very quickly and mostly in Italian had made her seem even scarier than the average Irish mum.

“I remember. Your mum was terrifying!”

Craig chuckled and added ‘Actions’ to the top of the board.

“The point is we need to check missing persons to see if any match our three boys. OK, continue with your theory, Liam.”

“Right, well, the next thing is, why were their feet so thickened? The top surfaces were perfect, even their toenails were filed, but all three of their soles were thickened. What could have done that?”

John signalled to speak. “I was thinking about that last night. I wonder if they might have been kept without shoes to prevent them escaping.”

“Would it have though, Doc? Stopped them, I mean.”

“It might have if the terrain where they were being held was rough enough, either naturally or engineered to be so.”

Craig’s curiosity was piqued. “Are you thinking of something in particular?”

“Well…you know how I read a lot of history.”

“Go on.”

“That includes ancient methods of torture, and there were several ancient regimes that used moats fitted with glass shards or snakes to keep prisoners trapped. It might have been something like that that stopped the boys running without their shoes.”

Liam’s eyebrows rose. “You need to stop reading hardback books, Doc. They’re warping you.”

“If I was going to be warped by something I saw or read, it would have happened long ago.”

Craig wrote up, ‘No shoes and terrain engineered to deter crossing?’ and turned back to his friend.

“For how long, John? How long would it have taken for their soles to have thickened like that?”

The pathologist was taken aback. It wasn’t something he’d considered on his sweep.

“Well, everyone builds skin at a different rate.”

“How long approximately then?”

“I’ll need to check, but probably six to eight weeks.”

“That fits with your two-month assessment on their scars.”

Liam shook his head dolefully. “Plenty long enough for a loving family to realise that E.T. hasn’t phoned home.”

Craig nodded. “So, we may be looking at families that didn’t care about their sons, didn’t know they were missing, or there are missing person reports waiting to be found. OK, next. Liam pointed out the upper aspects of the boys’ feet were pristine. To me both their hands and feet looked almost too perfect.”

The DCS nodded energetically. “Like someone had pampered them. I thought that too, but what does it mean? It doesn’t exactly fit with the torture, does it. Unless we’re looking for a killer with a foot fetish? And hand?”

As Liam finished his sentence, he guffawed at the nonsense of it. But Craig didn’t dismiss the idea so lightly.

“You could be right, Liam. Those hands and feet were pampered. Can you add anything there, John?”

“The nails on both their hands and feet had been filed very smooth, and not only filed but buffed.”

Liam stared at him quizzically. “What does buffed mean?”

“That depends on the context, but for nails, buffing is smoothing the nail surface to look more consistent and shinier. It’s normally done by beauticians. Anyway, there’s something else as well, and I’d like you to come and check this with me on your way out. The boys’ hands smelled scented to me. I don’t have a particularly sensitive nose, but one of you might have.”

“What about their feet, John? Were they scented as well?”

“No, but then they had been left dangling in the sea.”

“To deliberately wash a scent off?”

“We’ll never know. Perhaps. Perhaps the scent on their feet might have led you to their killer but the one on their hands won’t? Anyway, there’s no point speculating now because it’s gone.”

Craig shook his head. “Not necessarily. Des and Grace might still be able to extract a chemical residue.” He wrote it up under actions and added, ‘John to ask Des’.

“Fine. I’ll ask him. OK, also on the hands and feet, there was nothing visible under any of their nails but I’ve taken scrapings for samples. Des can check for chemicals in those too, as well as for DNA.”

“Good. OK, what else on initial viewing? Anything interesting about the victims’ clothes?”

“They were a mixture of chain-store with the occasional more expensive piece. The labels had been cut out of those; I’m assuming because they might have been unique brands you could trace. The others were just chain store buys, but I’ve asked Grace to go over all the fabrics carefully to see what she can find.”

When he paused and swallowed hard, Craig knew what was coming.

“No underclothes?”

“None. Not on any of them.”

Liam’s mouth twisted in revulsion. “Signs of sexual assault, Doc?”

“On two of them. Repeated anal tearing. The healing of the oldest tears suggests that it started a couple of months ago.”

“So, not usually engaged in?”

“No.”

“Unlikely to be gay then, John?”

“I can’t say that definitively because not all homosexual men have anal sex, and not all who do create scars.”

“Fine. We won’t employ possible sexual preference as a lead.”

Liam asked the obvious question. “Which lad wasn’t sexually assaulted, Doc?”

“The dark-haired boy.”

“He was the most muscular, boss, so he might have been able to fight them off.”

John sighed. “Or they may have just decided to use him for scourging instead. He and the pale boy had scars on their backs from repeated whipping. The fair-haired boy was spared that at least.”

“Age of the wounds?”

“Again, a couple of months for the oldest. A day or two for the most recent.”

With gritted teeth, Craig wrote, ‘Signs of sexual and physical abuse and torture - two months’ on the board as the pathologist went on in a weary voice.

“Someone took these boys somewhere, their shoes were taken from them, and then men, maybe women too, who knows, assaulted, tortured, and beat them, and possibly used them to indulge their fetishes and fantasies for months. After that they were paralysed, probably left conscious for a while to fear what was coming, then killed and disposed of in the bizarre, disgusting display that we found.”

He stared hard at Craig. “You need to find these bastards, Marc. You need to find them.”

Craig nodded and kept writing, adding ‘Check with SCCAU for sexual predators and preferences – Aidan’ to his list.

SCCAU was The Sex Crimes and Child Abuse Unit, usually known as SCA.

Aidan was currently seconded to SCA two days a week to act as deputy to the unit chief, DCS Marlene Porteon, an excellent officer who had trained with Craig but was now having difficulty with the fact that he’d recently become her boss.

“OK, moving on. How long after they were paralysed were they killed, John?”

“It’s impossible to say absolutely but, as I said at the scene, it’s likely that it was only a short time.”

“How can you tell, Doc?”

The pathologist stared down at his hands as he answered.

“Try to imagine that your spinal cord has been cut, Liam. Just imagine. You can’t move, you can’t feel your clothes against your skin, you know that you’ll never draw or type or touch anyone again with your hands, you know that you’ll be dependent on others for even the most basic functions all your life. What effect do you think that would have on you?”

“I’d go insane.”

“Hopefully not, because you would have family and friends who loved you and a health service to support you through it, but here, yes, insane feels like exactly the right word. Because these boys were alone with the people who’d done this to them. Deliberately. Deliberately.”

He paused for a moment, gripping his desk hard to regain control before going on.

“And even if madness didn’t descend on them, stress, anger, anxiety, and despair might have. And human beings have a way of acting out those emotions-”

Craig cut in. “How?”

“By biting their tongues or lips off, or chewing them extensively at least. I found none of that. Refusing food is another way, but there were no signs of starvation with any of the boys. Also, the paralysis would have meant that even their most basic functions would have required assistance and they would have needed to be turned at regular intervals to prevent pressure sores developing, yet there was no sign of soiling or urine leakage or pressure areas starting to form.”

Craig nodded. “You’re saying that they were paralysed, given just enough time for that to sink in, possibly for someone to take pleasure watching their torment, and then killed by lethal injection.”

The pathologist nodded. “Yes. I wouldn’t give it more than a few hours between paralysis and death.”

Liam sighed with relief. “It was quick. That’s some blessing at least, boss.”

“True, but we’re dealing with genuine evil this time, Liam.”

It might have sounded like a strange thing for a murder detective to say when every murder was inherently evil, but the others understood what he meant.

There’s a hierarchy to everything in this world, and in the hierarchy of evil whoever had done this was at the top.

As Craig took a photograph of the points he’d scribbled on the board and they made their way in silence to view the bodies, he felt chilled to his core. What would they find at the end of their hunt this time? What, not who, because this killer wasn’t human in his view.

He parked his fury at the door of the dissection room and waited to be beckoned to each victim’s side in turn, to gaze down at their smooth young face and want to weep for the parents who had lost them, and whom someday soon, once they’d discovered the boys’ names, they would have to inform.

As requested, the detectives sniffed briefly at the hands that John held up, growing more puzzled as they went along, and when the ritual was over, the pathologist ushered them back into the corridor and said, “Well, what did you think? Any scent?”

Both detectives nodded and Craig waved his deputy on.

“It was strongest on the pale boy for me, boss.”

Craig concurred. “I agree. Then the dark boy, with the fair-haired boy last.”

“Yep, the fair-haired boy definitely had the weakest scent.”

John gave a tight smile.

“So, I wasn’t hallucinating. But what was the scent? Did either of you recognise it?”

After, “Floral of some description” from Craig came a much more definite, “Rose. It was rose scented” from his deputy.

“Can you enlarge on that, Liam?”

“My granny used to wear rose extract, just a dab, and those boys smelt just like that to me. But it wasn’t perfume, Doc. I mean, not shop-bought perfume. For me that always has a powdery smell and this was more natural.”

“An organic perfume perhaps, or a rose oil?”

“I don’t know what you’d call it, but yeh, it smelt natural. Like you’d walked into someone’s garden in bloom.” Seeing Craig frown, he asked. “What do you think it means, boss?”

“We could be looking at a particular sexual preference. A fetish of some sort, a very specific fetish involving a rose scent. That can’t be common, Liam, meaning that Aidan might get lucky on his hunt.”

“A wee bit of good news maybe, in a bucket of bad. Great catch, Doc.”

John nodded and then pointed them towards the exit. “Right, go away now, and leave me to do my post-mortems. I’ve no doubt we’ll meet again soon.”

****

The CCU. 11.30 a.m.

By the time the detectives arrived back at the squad-room their moods had darkened further. That’s what happens when you have a journey during which to think.

It showed on both their faces, so Nicky, who had been intending to hand Craig a folder of letters and reports to sign, hastily pushed it back into her drawer and went to make a pot of coffee and one of tea instead.

After adding some of her stash of ‘good’ biscuits to a side plate, she knocked on the office door and carried in the refreshments, surprised to find that not only was Craig standing staring out of his window at the river, as he often did, but Liam had joined in today as well.

Setting down the tray as quietly as possible, she left the detectives to commune with nature and Liam to realise what his boss got out of staring at the view.

It was calming, but something else too. The river’s undulations had an almost hypnotic effect that if he wasn’t careful might make him fall asleep. Their effect on Craig was different; not soporific but zoning out. It was a state in which he often got his best ideas.

Today was no exception, and when he suddenly turned to connect his phone to his computer, pulling up the snap of John’s notice board and sending it to Davy for later projection, then sprinted out the door to whisper something to his secretary and returned to take his seat before Liam had quite roused himself, it earned him a round of applause.

“Your forty-winks paid off, roadrunner.”

Craig chuckled and poured out the drinks.

“I wasn’t sleeping but thinking, Liam. The water helps me focus.”

The DCS gave a loud yawn, accompanied by a stretch so wide that he almost knocked the whiteboard off the wall.

“Aye, well, all it made me focus on was my bed. Maybe there’s something to those ‘sounds of the ocean’ tapes for insomniacs after all.”

He lifted a couple of biscuits and dunked the first as he added, “What did your focus bring then, boss?”

“A theory. I sent the new list to Davy and Nicky’s arranging a briefing for half-twelve, but I’d like to run something past you first.”

He lifted a biscuit, making a mental note to give his PA some money for supplies as he did so, but instead of eating it immediately like his deputy he waved it in the air as he spoke.

“So… let’s say that our three boys were abducted.”

“Logical.”

“Abducted separately though, not together.”

“Because?”

“Because group abductions are risky. There’s too much risk of one target breaking away and calling the cops, or both fighting with their assailants. Also, a group abduction would mean that the boys had to have been together at the time.”

“So, they’d have had to be friends.”

Liam’s first biscuit disappeared, aided by a large gulp of tea.

“Well, acquaintances at least. Now, that may turn out to be the case, but we can’t assume it at this stage. With me so far?”

Liam nodded and topped up his tea from the pot.

“So, it’s unlikely that all three lads were abducted together, boss, but…”

“We can’t assume that it wasn’t two and then one. Snatching even two at once could still have been risky, but someone might have pulled it off.”

The deputy lifted his second biscuit. “Someone being our creeps. How many of them were there do you think?”

“Well, we know it would have taken at least two people to move the bodies from a boat to the cove, don’t we.”

Craig was surprised when his deputy pulled a face. “I’ve been thinking about that, boss, and I’m not so sure. I could’ve carried those lads to the cove easily, one by one. So could you.”

“Not easily, Liam. Remember, even if they weren’t actually dead at that point they were paralysed, so still dead weights.”

The deputy puffed out his cheeks, saying that he remained unconvinced. “I could still have done it.”

“Fair enough, but few people are six-foot-six like you. And you’re missing something, Liam. Carry the boys from where?”

“The boat.”

“Yes, but which boat are you talking about?”

“Ach, don’t be obtuse, boss. The rowboat of course.”

Craig shook his head vehemently. He’d been sailing since he was a teenager and he knew the sea, rough and smooth.

“No-one sane would have attempted that coast in a rowing boat, Liam, not even in calm summer waters. It’s far too risky. The currents in the Irish Sea are notoriously changeable. Also, we’ve no idea how close any boat could have got to the cove without tearing out its hull because we don’t have a map of the sea floor. And then there’s the question of how it was anchored. If you’re right and one man rowed and carried the bodies alone, one at a time, how did his rowboat not float back out to sea? I suppose they could have tied up on a rock, but-”

Liam waved him down. “OK, Captain Ahab, I get it. So how did they manage it then?”

“They probably used a motorboat for speed and stability and dropped anchor. Also, it could only have entered the cove when the water was highish or it might have run aground.”

He scribbled, ‘Hide tide clearance’ and ‘Did the perps know the area well and know the sea floor geography around the cove?’ on the board before going on.

“Also, in my opinion the motorboat must have come from a larger vessel, Liam. Either a pleasure craft like a large yacht, or a trawler. A motorboat alone would have been trashed on the open sea.”

Liam bit thoughtfully into another biscuit. “So, you’re saying a wee motorboat loaded with the bodies was lowered from one of those bigger boats and headed to the cove?”

“Yes, and I still think there were two perps, creeps, at least, otherwise both boats would have had to drop anchor.”

“Explain for the non-sailor.”

“It means to use an anchor to fix the boat’s position. The larger boat could have anchored a safe distance from the shore, to avoid drifting, and then both perps plus our victims’ bodies could have travelled to the cove in a motorboat, one lifting the bodies out and the other staying ready to accelerate away, or anchoring the motorboat so that both could lift. The large boat had to stay fairly near the coast because further out would have made them more visible, and the last thing they needed was to get caught with three dead people on their hands.”

“OK...”

“With three perps they could even have kept the bigger boat unanchored and ready to run.”

“Nice theory generally, boss, but there’s a flaw in it. Even I know that boats have transponders, so if we contact the coastguard and navy, they’ll be able to check for signals and tell us who went anywhere near that cove in the past few days. So much for their secret stashing place giving the creeps anonymity.”

Craig smiled and set his uneaten biscuit on the desk. “We can ask, but something tells me our perps aren’t naïve. If they’re experienced sailors they would have known to turn off their boat’s transponder before they even left port.”

“That’s illegal!”

Craig scoffed at him. “You think that would bother murderers?”

Just then, Liam had another thought, but before he could voice it Craig added, “And before you say, ‘but we can check which boats weren’t where they were supposed to be and work out who our perps are from there’ no, we can’t.”

A defiant scowl from his deputy said that he had better explain fast.

“We’re an island nation, Liam, as is GB, and Ireland alone has over four-thousand miles of coastline. That means hundreds of formal and informal places to moor, so even if we knew every single boat on the island’s routines, routes, and timings, if they even record them, finding out which one wasn’t moored where it was supposed to be, probably overnight because it’s doubtful they loaded the bodies in broad daylight, would require… well, we’re talking about canvassing sailors, boat owners, fishermen, pleasure cruises, harbourmasters, and CCTV where a harbour even has any. That’s could stretch into months and take more manpower than we can afford.”

The deputy gave an exasperated tut.

“Ach, if not that then what?”

“We need to be smarter, that’s what. We need to work with what we’ve got.”

“What we’ve got is three dead lads!”

“Exactly. So, we need to ID them and explore the circumstances around their disappearances. But we also need to decide who we’re looking for.”

He wrote up, ‘Who are our perps?’

“Give me suggestions, Liam, and it doesn’t matter how strange they sound.”

The DCS thought for a moment before responding.

“Hunters. They’re hunters.”

“Yes! Good.” Scribbling the word on the board, Craig said, “Expand on that.”

“Ruthless, cold, predators, they’re in this partly for the thrill of killing a living thing. The sort of people who would shoot Bambi for fun, if we still did that kind of thing here.”

Craig stopped writing. “Did I tell you Katy did some work for the EU once? In Scandinavia.”

“When was that then?”

“About a decade ago. Before we met. Anyway, she told me that there was a guy in some department of health, Danish I think, who hunted, and he invited her back to his quarters to show her a bear that he’d just killed.”

Liam burst out laughing. “It makes a change from ‘let me show you my etchings’ I suppose. I bet she gave him an earful. Her being a vegetarian and all.”

Craig chuckled. “His ears are probably still ringing.” He turned back to the board. “OK, so our killers are hunters, which probably means they enjoy the challenge of selecting and stalking their prey before moving in for the kill. The ritual of it will be important to them.”

“Except that here they’re not moving in for a quick kill, boss. They’re abusing and torturing their prey, which is worse.”

“I agree.” He tapped the board. “So, sadistic hunters might be a better description. But stalking requires stealth and intelligence, Liam, so we can’t underestimate these people. They aren’t stupid. OK, what else can we say about our perps?” He answered his own question. “They’re sailors as well. Very experienced sailors, I’d say, to sail our seas in April.”

“Do sailing clubs hold a record of names and skill levels, boss?”

“They might do if someone’s a repeat attender. Also, if our perps are fishermen, official fishing harbours will have a list of moorings and the names of boats. I think there are some licensing and membership fees as well. And the coastguard and naval organisations might have helpful lists too.”

“I’ve another idea, boss. I know none of the boys were shot, but if I was going to abduct someone, I’d want a gun handy in case things went to hell. Knives are only good at close quarters, and the dark boy looked like he could have fought back, so why risk it?”

“Good catch. So, gun ownership and gun clubs need to be investigated. Give that to Mary. She’s keen on shooting.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and Craig knew immediately who it was.

“Come in, Nicky.”

Only the PA’s head appeared. “It’s half-twelve, sir. Everyone’s ready.”

“Great. Tell them we’ll just be a minute, and-”

“Get you some fresh coffee. I know.”

As the door closed behind her, Liam smirked. “I’d like a secretary like that.”

“Isn’t having Alice part-time enough? I can make her full-time if you like.”

Alice was Nicky’s part-time assistant and couldn’t have been more different from the sparky PA. Quiet and motherly; she arrived on time, never engaged in gossip, did her work efficiently and went home.

“Nah, you’re all right thanks boss. Alice is grand and all, but I need a telepathic PA. One who always knows when I want tea and biccies. But I think they broke the mould when they made Nicky.”

Changing the subject, he gestured back at the board. “We haven’t got far on our profile, boss.”

Craig shrugged. “Far enough to start a discussion with bigger brains than ours.”

He took a photo of the board with his phone.

“Grab a seat outside while I give this to Davy.”

As the detectives emerged from the small office they were hit by a wave of noise. People chatting and lazily scraping their chairs to the front of the squad-room instead of lifting them, Nicky almost dropping her tray of fresh coffee so that it hit the desk with a clatter, the pot wobbling ominously until she steadied it with a hand, and Davy and Ash doing what they always did: tapping, clicking, and pinging, with only their swiping and scrolling not adding sound.

The resulting cacophony felt jarring to Liam after his moments of zen river-gazing, so he let his displeasure be known by slapping the nearest desk hard and hollering, “QUIET!” followed by a more pianissimo, “and gather your asses round.”

It said something that no-one was at all shocked by the outburst and in fact barely even acknowledged it, and, although he would never admit it, that perturbed Liam slightly.

Not the implication that he’d always been a noisy big yahoo, he’d been told that for decades, but the worry of, what was the point of shock tactics unless they had the desired effect? Would he need to escalate and employ a foghorn or even threats? Craig wouldn’t wear either but without discipline anarchy might ensue.

While his deputy was picturing an Armageddon of detectives running amok, Craig read his mind and with a smirk perched himself against the front desk.

“Thank you for that charming introduction, Liam, and yes, can everyone please be quiet while we lay out where we’ve got to with the case. Davy, I’ll come to you on those lists in a moment.”

He nodded his deputy to repeat the last part of his summons, which Liam did minus the ‘asses’ this time, and when everyone had finally settled, he also allowed him to accept the praise for it in his own mind, adding, ‘You see what being polite achieves, Liam?’ with a glance.

Then he nodded his senior analyst to display the screen captures he’d taken that morning on the LED screen, now transformed into a single bullet-pointed list.

“Thanks, Davy. Send these to everyone please.”

“Already on their smartpads.”

“Great.” He moved across to the television. “Right, these notes are the first thoughts of Liam, Doctor Winter and myself on the case and are just prompts for discussion. In summary, we feel that we’re looking for at least two killers who abducted our three male victims, in what number combinations we haven’t yet decided but it was unlikely to have been all three at once. They then, as you can see here, subjected or facilitated them being subjected to torture and abuse, paralysis by stabbing and finally death by lethal injection. At that point the youths’ bodies were transported to sea by boat, probably a yacht or trawler, and eventually ferried on a smaller boat to the cove where we found them. Once there, the bodies were carefully staged and left for someone, probably the coastguard and us, to find.”

Andy shook his head. “Surely there’s no way of knowing that, chief? I mean the bodies could just as easily have washed away before anyone found them.”

Even Liam was surprised by how firmly Craig shook his head. “Unlikely for several reasons. Why bother displaying the bodies at all if you aren’t expecting them to be found?”

“Because the person who left them might have had that kink?”

Craig gazed thoughtfully at him for several seconds then smiled.

“This is why I like having a team. We hadn’t thought of that – write it on the board, Liam. One of our perps may have had an additional fetish linked to the final display. That’s if the first fetish was his at all.”

As his deputy obliged, Craig saw the mention of a ‘first fetish’ arouse people’s inquisitiveness.

He stilled their looming questions with, “We’ll come to that in a moment” and scanned the face of each team member, reading sadness, disgust, and anger, all of which were expected. But on two faces he also saw intense focus, and on one of those even a hint of admiration. Experience told him to concentrate on those.

“Davy and Ash, you both seem…well, let’s say intrigued. And Ash, you even seem impressed. No judgment but I’m interested as to why, so I’d like you both to explain. You first, Davy.”

The chief analyst nodded solemnly; his handsome, aquiline face, boyish when he’d first joined the squad years before but now matured into a masculinity that reminded Craig that he wasn’t still ‘the boy’, as Liam insisted on calling him and probably would until they were pensioners, but a thirty-one-year-old married man who would get his doctorate the following year and have the world at his feet. He would have to fight very hard to keep him on the squad after that.

He parked the revelation as Davy’s solemnity was suddenly replaced by a gleeful curiosity that he’d just been given permission to reveal.

“I think we can all agree that what they did to those boys was disgusting, chief, so I’m not thrilled by that. But, yeh, I am intrigued, that’s a good w…word for it.”

The analyst’s lifelong stutter on ‘S’ and ‘W’ was mild now compared to what it had once been, but still emerged when he got worked up.

“By what exactly?”

“The mindset required to do these things, for sure, but mainly why anyone would assume that everything that was done to the victims was the work of their abductors-stroke-killers.”

When Ash nodded furiously at the point, Craig’s eyes widened. In one minute, the pair had spotted something that they’d missed for twenty-four hours.

Bigger brains or the clarity offered by being at arm’s length from the gory reality of crime?

“Elaborate on that, please.”

“S…Sure.” Davy gestured at the screen. “OK, so in your notes you theorise that these guys are hunters, and I agree with that, but hunters hunt for their pleasure and the products of the hunt: the challenge of stalking, aiming and killing, then the devouring, yes?”

There were a few slow nods.

“But what hunters don’t do, and apologies for saying this, they don’t play with their food.”

Nicky’s, “YUK” was loud, but Craig knew that Annette’s would have been even louder so he was glad that she wasn’t around.

Liam nodded furiously. “That’s what I said, boss.”

“It is, but I’m sensing that Davy’s reasoning is slightly different. You pointed out that abuse isn’t what hunters normally do, Liam, but, Davy, is that your point?”

The analyst shook his head.

“No. And yes, chief. I agree with Liam, why all the messing about? Hunters don’t normally do that, they’re more about the straight stalk and kill, and that’s not what happened here.”

He pointed to the notes on the screen. “But here, two of the Vics were raped repeatedly, two were whipped, a different two, and all three were beaten and held in captivity. That’s not hunting, that’s sadism.”

Mary sniffed. “Some might say that all hunting is sadism.”

“And I would normally be one of them, but in this situation, I think we need to make a distinction about what happened before and during the abduction, which was a hunt, and what happened afterwards. And why they aren’t the same.”

Ash was nodding so furiously that Craig feared him falling off his seat, so he said, “You obviously feel the same, Ash.”

“And then some.”

Seeing him about to elaborate, Craig held up his hand.

“I’ll come back to you in a moment, I promise. But first, Davy, you’re saying that our hunter profile, what little we have of it, may fit with the hunt-stroke-abduction episodes but not what came afterwards?”

Davy replied first. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m, and I guess Ash is saying. But I think before we can get to the profile of what happened after the abduction, we need to ask what was it for, chief? What was its purpose?”

Craig could see Aidan straining at the leash so he signalled him to let rip.

“Just on the hunting part, Aidan.”

“OK, let’s stick to animals then. So, people hunt animals for various reasons in different parts of the world. For the challenge, to improve their survival skills, for rituals, for the believed medicinal properties of the animal’s parts, such as Rhino horn in some countries. Also, for food, and in cold countries animals are skinned for coverings. Warmth. But Ireland’s not that cold and no body parts were removed, were they?”

Craig shook his head hastily.

“So, these kids weren’t skinned or turned into food-”

“Don’t give them ideas, Hughesy, for God’s sake!”

Craig nodded but there was a darkness behind his eyes that Liam read instantly; he was worried that what came next might be even worse.

Andy jumped into the gap the interruption had created and finished Aidan’s thought.

“That leaves the challenge, ritual, and any skills acquired from the hunt and abduction. But I would add pleasure to that list, chief. The pleasure of hunting and the pleasure they also took repeatedly from the victims after they’d captured them.” He glanced down at his smartpad where he had images of the boys displayed. “That’s a problem.”

Nicky’s, “I’ll say it’s a problem! It’s disgusting!” couldn’t be argued with, but Andy shook his head.

“I think we should take it as given that we’re all revolted by these crimes, Nicky, or we’ll never get past our disgust long enough to solve them.”

Craig nodded firmly. “I agree. No more outrage, please.” He ignored his PA’s glare. “Go on with what you were saying, Andy. And then we’ll return to what I asked Davy and Ash to work on earlier.”

Then DCI indicated the list onscreen.

“The problem I was referring to was what happened post-hunt. Look at what happened after the hunt was effectively over and the boys became captives. On one hand there was imprisonment, whipping and physical assault, and on the other manicures, pedicures, and rose-scented anointing. Then we have the rapes. Lastly, we have sadistic paralysis and then finally an almost merciful death by injection, depending on what substance was used. Those behaviours don’t fit with one or even two individuals, chief. We’ve never seen them grouped together in a single killer or even a killing partnership, or am I wrong?”

Davy nodded furiously. “That’s what I was about to say.”

Craig nodded. “OK…I’m not sure about never, Andy – I would need to go back over the crimes of partnerships like Rose and Fred West and the Hillside Stranglers to be certain, but in general no, you aren’t wrong. Most partnerships develop because the people involved enjoy the same things. Even amongst killers there’ll be things that individuals disapprove of and have the potential to cause rifts, so the more similarity of desire the better for a partnership to survive. So, if you and Davy are implying that not all the damage here would necessarily fit our suggested two abductors, I agree-”

Aidan cut in. “But that might be because we’re forgetting the other motive for hunting, guv. The one that I didn’t get to.”

“Go on.”

“Profit. People sometimes just hunt for profit. In ancient tribes that lived purely off the land, yes, they hunted for all the other reasons I listed, but they also sold animal carcases to other tribes for profit, whatever form that took. That could have happened here-”

“Here” was drowned out by a cry of, “FINALLY!” and everyone turned to see that Ash had turned red in the face.

Craig smirked at the junior analyst. “Was that what you’d wanted to say earlier, Ash?”

“Partly.”

“Sorry. I should have come back to you but we got carried away.”

Having grabbed the baton, Craig knew the analyst wanted to run with it so he nodded him on.

“Aidan’s right on the profit bit, I’m one hundred percent on that, but nothing said before was wrong. The abductors did the kidnapping and probably killing, and may or may not have taken part in some of the rest, but I don’t think they could have done it all alone. There were too many different and sometimes conflicting things, like Andy said. It’s also unlikely that the variety of what happened to the Vics could have happened in a small geographic area.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s not like your local pub will just happen to have a sadist, a fetishist, a rapist, a murderer and what have you all gathered by chance. They didn’t just walk into the pub together like in the joke, did they?”

Encouraged by people shaking their heads, he added, “Unless… that pub is the size of the internet.”

Davy and Mary, a computer sciences graduate, had been smirking since he’d said pub, but for the others understanding came slowly and accompanied by gasps, even from Craig.

“You’re saying that our victims were advertised on the internet?!”

“Yep. Had to be, chief. There’s nowhere else you’d get all those different pervs gathered in one place. But whether the Vics were abducted to order or advertised after they’d been abducted, I’ve no clue. I guess we’ll find out tho-”

Davy cut across him. “But remember, we’re not talking about the internet that people like us use to book holidays, chief, we’re talking about the Dark Web.”

The Dark Web was a part of the internet accessible only by using special software, allowing its users to remain anonymous or untraceable. It acted as a shopfront for drugs, weapons, sexual perversions, and dangerous ideologies, and because of that presented a challenge for law enforcement everywhere in the world.

Ash nodded excitedly. “The darkest, dirtiest corners of it too. Otherwise, the perps might have risked being caught by the cops or Feds.”

Seeing that a much bigger discussion was about to start, Craig raised his hand again to halt the flow.

“This is fascinating and relevant, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We need to cover the basics first, so let’s park this discussion for now and come back.”

Seeing the dismay on his analysts’ faces, and not only on theirs, he added hurriedly, “Just for ten minutes, I promise.”

Before anyone could object, he threw Liam a marker and gestured at the board.

“Draw three columns with the descriptions that we’ve been using for our victims at the top. Pale, dark, and fair. We’ll add whatever other details we have as we talk.”

He turned back to Andy.

“You were looking at coves for us, so what did you find?”

The DCI straightened up in his seat and nodded to Davy. “It’s on that ‘Maps’ file I sent you.”

The analyst tapped and a coloured map of Ireland appeared onscreen.

“OK, as you can see Ireland is shown with no border because I didn’t think it was relevant here.”

Liam sniffed loudly. “It never was, mate.”

The DCI responded with a sympathetic smile. His tastes ran towards a united Ireland inside the European Union as well, but Craig had banned political discussions in the office so that debate would have to wait for the pub.

“I’ve kept the colours primary. Ireland is shown in green and the oceans and seas around it are blue. The Atlantic Ocean lies along the north, west and a corner of the south-west of the island; along the bottom there’s mainly the Celtic Sea, and then coming up the east side we have the Irish Sea. OK so far?”

Craig motioned him to move along. Geography was useful but they were veering into extraneous detail.

“OK, Davy, press enter.”

A thick red line appeared, outlining the island’s coast.

“This is Ireland’s coastline, all four-thousand-six-hundred-and-seventy-five miles of it.”

Mary’s perfectly styled eyebrows shot up. “That much?! But we’re just a small island.”

“With one of the longest coastlines in the world. And less of the small, thank you.”

He nodded for another ‘Enter’ and a dotted line appeared to Ireland’s far west.

“That’s the true extent of the territory owned by Ireland. The Irish Continental Shelf. Seven times the size of our dry land mass. If it was reclaimed from the Atlantic, we would be bigger than most of the countries in Europe. In fact, there’s talk of exactly that happening.”

Craig smirked. He’d seen the map before and had often produced it in London when people had called Ireland tiny.

“Thanks for the geography lesson, Andy, but get to the coves, please.”

“Ask and ye shall receive.”

Another ‘Enter’ and a plethora of black dots and one blue one appeared along the red line.

“The dots are Ireland’s coves. The blue one is where our victims were found, and the rest are a collection of inlets, named coves, and harbours including ports. As you can see there are too many to count.”

Craig considered the map for a moment and asked a question.

“Have you any way of ranking them by size?”

“I have in Ireland, but would you like to see the GB coves before I do?”

“No, thanks. I’m guessing there are far fewer because we have the longer and more irregular coastline.”

“Corr-ect! You win a teddy bear.”

The showman like delivery broke the sombre mood.

“I’ll give it to Luca. OK, can you show us just the coves proper?”

Another click and most of the dots disappeared.

“Now just the smallest and unnamed ones.”

The number of dots fell again.

“I defined small by any cove measuring under one hundred feet across.”

Liam nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Fine. Tell us a bit about them, Andy.”

“Well, they vary in shape and size as you might imagine, and I’ve only marked the ones created naturally, so no artificially created play beaches and so on, although I can show you those too if you like.”

“Let’s stick with natural erosion for now.”

“OK. Well, some are in cliff faces, like the one where you found our victims, and some are on a level with the land. Some have shingle floors and some are sandy.”

Liam had a thought. “What if the shingle in our cove meant something, boss? What if the perps chose it for a special reason?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t have a clue, but since the only Vics we’ve found were left on shingle it might be a thing, mightn’t it?”

It might or it might not, but as Andy seemed to have the information well segmented it wouldn’t do any harm to look.

“Show us only the coves floored with shingle, Andy.”

More dots disappeared, leaving only six. Including their crime scene.

“How did you get this information so quickly?”

“I called the coastguard, the RNLI, and the navies north and south. They know the coastline like the backs of their hands and were happy to oblige when I said we were investigating deaths.”

“Good work. You might need to add a source, the fishing industry, but this is great for now. OK, so we have five coves that match our Antrim crime scene. How many of those sit at the bases of cliffs?”

“All of them. The shingle must be a by-product of erosion. And all the cliffs are quite high so none of the coves are overlooked from the land.”

“That makes sense. Right. Now, take away the coves and show me just the harbours.”

“Ports as well?”

“No, just those harbours without import facilities if you can.”

Several hundred dots appeared, spread all around the coast.

“Now just the ones large enough to moor trawlers and yachts, even if they aren’t designated as such.”

When the number of dots didn’t diminish by much, Liam signalled to intervene.

“Just show us the ones with legal moorings for trawlers or yachts, Arty.”

When the number dropped to fewer than twenty Craig smirked.

“Good thinking. Our perps wouldn’t want to draw attention by mooring illegally.”

Aidan cut in. “So, you think the perps are fishermen or yacht owners?”

“I think they needed a boat that was large enough to carry the second, smaller boat that went into the cove. A bigger boat couldn’t have got that far in without running aground, and a smaller boat alone couldn’t have managed those coastal waters for any length of time, so it had to be a combination. Liam will explain the thinking while I get a fresh coffee.”

By the time he returned from the kitchen the team members were talking animatedly amongst themselves. Seeing that Ryan was particularly excited, Craig motioned him to explain.

“I’m from Strangford and I know fishing, chief.”

He’d forgotten that his inspector had been raised by the sea.

“You must do. And?”

“And there won’t be many fishing boats, not even big trawlers, that could carry a motorboat. And I agree, it had to have been a motor boat to enter a cove in the Irish Sea. It gets rough. A rowboat could’ve toppled, even with the weight of five people on board.”

Craig set down his mug, flipped the board and started sketching.

“OK, this is our big boat.”

A drawing of a boat that only a five-year-old could have been proud of appeared, making the group crack up.

Craig joined in the laughter. “Yes, I know. I’m no artist. On second thoughts…” He handed his marker to Andy. “Improve on that.”

With a few deft strokes a perfect boat appeared, making Liam nod like a proud father.

“That’s talent, that is.”

Aidan smirked, “Unless he’s your kin you can’t claim it,” prompting Andy to give an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, Dad, I tried to keep our secret. Honest.”

Craig chuckled at the thought. His deputy must have been a very mature eight-year-old.

“Very witty, but move on. Sketch a cove in a cliff face nearby, Andy, and then a small boat in that cove, please.”

When both had been successfully rendered, he retrieved his marker.

“OK, this small boat was lowered from this larger boat further from shore and it would have held two perps and our three victims, so five people as Ryan said. There had to be at least two perps because the bodies were either paralysed or dead at that stage and one man couldn’t have moved them alone. No, not even you, Liam. Does anyone disagree?”

Ryan raised a finger. “So, does that mean that the larger boat was anchored, or there was a third perp on board keeping it in place?”

“To be decided.”

“But we’re definitely looking for a trawler or yacht with a crew of at least two?”

“We are. Andy, make a note of that. In fact, Ryan, with your knowledge of the fishing community I’d like you to work with Andy on this from now on. OK with you, Andy?”

The DCI nodded. “I’d be glad of the help.”

Craig turned back to the board. “OK, Doctor Winter is convinced that our victims finally met their ends by injection, although of what we don’t yet know, but I believe it was most likely administered before they reached the cove to avoid any mishaps-”

Liam cut in. “So, then the perps laid the Vics out. Eyes open gazing at heaven, bare feet in the water and with their heads lined up even though they were different heights. Weird.”

Craig nodded. “Weird indeed. But it must have meant something to our killers.”

“To one of them at least.”

“Good point. Not all partners are equal, and those that aren’t usually don’t take turns in calling the shots.”

Aidan pulled a face. “Unless the junior partner rebels that is.”

Mary sat up straight at her desk, her feminist heart ever-alert to discussions on equality.

“How often does that happen? Rebellion, I mean.”

Aidan shrugged. “I’ve no stats on it, but we know that it does otherwise there would be no abusive husbands getting murdered by their wives-”

Ryan cut in. “And no crims turning their gang leader in to the cops.”

The discussion was taking an interesting turn so Craig decided to explore.

“OK, for the sake of argument let’s say that we have two perps in an unequal partnership. One dominating the other and perhaps leading the subordinate places they don’t want to go.”

Davy raised his pen to speak.

“Yes, Davy.”

“Earlier you said that partnerships form because the people involved enjoy mostly the same things, chief.”

“Usually, yes. Otherwise, the pairing can destabilise. But interests can change, so time can also destabilise a partnership.”

The analyst tapped the pen against his teeth as he considered the response, making Nicky wince.

“You’ll crack a tooth doing that.”

“I’d need to be tapping pretty hard.”

But to appease her he removed the implement before going on. “OK, so differences and time can destabilise, chief, but what if the perps only stay partners because they’re bound together in a different way?”

“Such as?”

“Dependence. It could be that they’re both interested or were interested initially in the s…same sadistic practices, or maybe we should consider a more normal dependency for the junior partner? Financial, romantic, or familial maybe. Whatever it is, it might keep the junior partner in line even if they wanted to break away.”

Craig stared at the floor for a moment, thinking. When he looked up again, he saw that the idea had struck a chord with quite a few.

“So… you’re suggesting a male partnership that has money, romance, or family at its core. Keeping the junior in line while he tolerates the perversions, or at least doesn’t enjoy them as much as the dominant.”

Liam gave a disgusted sniff. “Until he doesn’t any more, boss, and I’m wondering if there’s anything we could do to speed that up.”

“So am I, but,” Craig straightened up sharply, indicating that they were about to get real, “the killers’ relationship is just speculation right now so let’s focus on actions. Aidan, you’re more familiar with the world of Vice than the rest of us…”

That brought a few chuckles.

“… so, anything you could explore there that might move us forward?”

The lanky DCI smirked. “I can check with my old department, guv, and SCA might know something. Partnerships aren’t as common in perve land as you might think, not combined with killing anyway, so we might get a hit.” He turned to Ash. “You might too if you use the right parameters.”

The analyst tipped his hat.

“Good.” Craig closed the topic by turning back to the board.

“Anything else on coves, Andy?”

“Not right now, but I may have a suggestion to make later on.”

“OK, come back with it then.” He turned to Mary. “Mary, you were looking at gun ownership, clubs and so forth. How are you getting on with that?”

“Fine so far. There were more than I thought there would be once you take down south into account. I mean more gun clubs, but also far more civilians owning firearms than ought to, in my opinion. I can research a bit more, refine it to fishermen and sailors who own guns for instance, but,” she sniffed disapprovingly, “if it comes to paying calls on them then who gets to come with me and hold my hand?”

Craig had introduced rules about officers being accompanied on enquiries and responding to regular safety texts after Mary had been abducted three years before. It grated on a few nerves, as the constable’s sarcastic tone showed.

She capped off her rudeness with her traditional lack of appellation. Craig didn’t think he’d had a ‘chief’ or ‘guv’ from her in all the years that she’d been on his team, never mind a ‘boss’ or a ‘sir’. He’d learned to ignore it, but when she ended her sentence instead with a roll of the eyes that verged on the disrespectful and whose subtext of, ‘If you will keep insisting on these stupid security measures’ the whole team heard loud and clear, he decided that he needed to tackle things head on.

“I know you think that I’m over-protective, all of you, and yes, perhaps I am. But we damn near had a dead team member three years ago, you, Constable Li, and I am not risking that again. I’m the one who’ll have to explain to your families why you’re never coming home and I’m not doing it. Understand? So, in answer to your question, Constable, whoever is free will accompany you, once you’ve refined things as much as you can in the office first. Is. That. Clear?”

While the others nodded mutely, Mary’s response was an indecipherable mumble that made even Ryan, who really liked her, give her a filthy look.

Craig noted the exchange with satisfaction; if the message didn’t sink in when he said it then peer pressure might do the job.

Mission accomplished; he turned back to face the group.

“Right, the other thing we were looking for was similar cases, so over to you on that, Davy.”

The chief analyst went to speak then decided against it, nodding his junior to take the floor, which he did gleefully.

“You’d be surprised how many people are found dead on the coast, chief.” He tapped his smartpad and replaced the previous screen with another map.

“OK, obviously this is Ireland again.” Another tap.” And this is the island of GB, with those little ones the Isle of Man, Hebrides and so on. Everyone with me so far?”

Craig rolled his eyes but his deputy’s response was less passive.

“Get on with it, will you. We all know where we live.”

Ash’s chuckle said he’d been aiming for just that reaction, and satisfied he moved on.

“OK, so the chief asked about coastal deaths, and as you’ll see there’ve been a lot over the past five years.”

A plethora of black dots appeared, their number surprising even Craig.

The analyst’s response was a shrug. “What can I say? People like the sea, don’t they. It must be the view.”

Ryan interjected. “And the sounds. The waves.”

Nodding, Ash held a finger above his smartpad.

“But… you’ll be pleased to know that very few, surprisingly few, of those deaths were murders.”

Aidan frowned. “What were they then?”

“Glad you asked.” The finger fell, turning some of the dots red. “We have drownings.” Another tap turned others green. “Then falls from cliffs and other accidents, like cars driving too close to a cliff edge and it giving way.” A third tap turned several dots blue. “But the biggest number of all was the suicides. People like their final view of the world to be nice.”

Craig walked over to the screen. The number of black dots left was less than a dozen across all the islands.

“Remove all but the black dots, Ash.”

As the analyst obliged, Liam’s sandy eyebrows rose.

“Are those all murders?”

“Well, only a few are called murders. Most are still labelled suspicious deaths. Overall, there are eleven black dots across the islands, and in Ireland only four, all called murders. I haven’t added our three new Vics yet.”

Craig returned to his seat. “Show only Ireland and add them now.”

Seven black dots appeared dotted around the island.

“That’s seven murders on the coast of Ireland, chief. All multiples. Our three Vics in Antrim, two found together near Bantry Bay in west Cork, and two more found together in County Clare, near Doolin.”

“Locations?”

“All cliff coves coincidentally. And all the Vics were young males.”

“There’s nothing coincidental about it, Ash.”

While Craig fell silent in thought, his deputy contested the figures to no effect, searching for females or even a male dying alone among the numbers, but there were none.

After a minute, Craig realised it was more than his own silence that he needed so he closed off his ears as well, slowly tuning out the group discussion that had started until all that he could hear was the thud of his heart, then he slowed its rate very deliberately to give him space to think. It was a technique that he’d used for years, usually while gazing at the river, and as well as enhancing his thought processes it also gave him a feeling of peace.

They had two pairs of dead young men in the south and now a trio in the north. Seven dead youths... Maleness was clearly an important component in these killings, in all its forms. Almost certainly male killers selecting, abducting, and ending male victims, probably younger than them. Why? Rivalry? Jealousy? Sexual longing? Did their killers love men and hate them in turn? Or did only one of them feel that way?

And the locations where the dead boys had been abandoned – four on Ireland’s west coast and now three on its east. Was the change of coast significant? A feint to throw them off or a logical extension of the killing spree? Should they expect more deaths on the east coast soon?

That thought jolted Craig from his trance, to find his deputy waving a hand in front of his face.

“He’s back! We thought you were dead, boss, or in a coma.”

Craig shoved the hand away with a, “Very funny” and turned his attention back to the group.

“Right, I’d like to hear your ideas before I tell you my own, but I need some additional facts first, Ash.”

“Ask away.”

“OK. When were the men found in Cork and Clare?”

“The Cork bodies were found in late September and the Clare ones in mid-December.”

“And ours in April. Two months between the first two groups and then four months between the Clare bodies and ours. Tell me exactly where they were found, Ash.”

“They were found in two of the cliff coves that Andy showed us. Both with shale and shingle floors.”

Shingled, naturally eroded cliff’s coves were integral parts of the killings.

“How were the earlier bodies arranged?”

The map was replaced quickly with a photograph.

“This is the County Cork scene. You can see the bodies are side-by-side, heads lined up and eyes turned to heaven just like ours.”

Liam shook his head. “But not their feet in the water, boss. Different killer?”

“Or it was the killers’ first time and they were still finding their signature. Show us the County Clare scene, Ash.”

This time the youths’ feet were submerged.

“That’s identical to our scene.”

“It is. Do we have the earlier victims’ names and ages yet, Ash?”

“The Guards just gave me ages, but I’ll request the files, chief. The Cork victims were seventeen and nineteen and the Clare men were both eighteen.”

The Garda Síochána, more commonly referred to as the Gardaí or "the Guards", is the national police service of Ireland. 

“Similar ages to our victims. When you say Clare men, Ash, was that just their final resting place or did they come from the area?”

The analyst shook his head. “Sorry, I won’t know where any of them came from till I pull the files. Then I’ll give you their home addresses, abduction and disposal sites.”

“Good. OK, before I open this discussion up, you were looking further afield as well, weren’t you?”

“Yep, Europe.” He shook his head. “No joy. Or rather, lots of joy for the men who aren’t dead. So far, I’ve found zero multiple male deaths on coasts anywhere in GB or mainland Europe. But I’ve got Europol still searching and I can extend it to the other continents if you’d like, chief?”

Craig shook his head. He was already convinced this was a homegrown crime spree.

Andy echoed his thoughts, sarcastically.

“Well, bully for Ireland. Now, we have another claim to fame. Ranked number one in multiple male deaths to add to our world number ones in golf and rugby.”

It was dark but it spoke to the mood in the room.

“OK, does anyone have anything else to share before I say what I think?”

Aidan and Ryan both raised fingers and Craig pointed to his inspector first.

“Yes, Ryan?”

The Strangford man ran a hand through his almost crew-cut hair as he spoke.

“Well… it’s more of a question really, chief. We have two victims, two victims and now three. Should we expect that number to escalate further with four Vics next time? Also, why two months between the first two sets of killings and now four?”

Craig wrote ‘2,2,3’ and ‘2,4’ on the board before he replied.

“There’s no way to answer those questions for certain yet, Ryan, although I’m inclined to think that the upper number of victims will be limited by logistics.”

“You mean what’s the highest number of assailants plus victims that could fit in their motorboat?”

“Exactly. Five adult men in a motorboat is pushing it already, so unless they buy a bigger one and by extension a larger trawler or yacht to carry it, I can’t see the number of victims escalating far beyond three. Expense is bound to play a factor, but also more victims would require additional help killing and moving them, and extending the number of assailants beyond their current partnership risks exposure. I’m not sure they’d chance that.”

The inspector had another, startling, thought. “But couldn’t they just make more trips, chief? I mean couldn’t they kill as many boys as they wanted and just ferry them to the cove in batches? That way the motorboat might only have to carry two or three people at a time.”

The question took Craig aback but he recovered quickly, shaking his head.

“In theory that could work, Ryan, but practically it would mean the larger boat being static for a longer period and that would risk them being spotted by patrols or even from shore. I’ll bear it in mind, but with limited time to stop them before they kill again, let’s stick to this scenario for now. Are you OK with that?”

When the detective nodded, Craig turned back to the board.

“On the two- and four-months question… either something led to the recent escalation or we’re missing a set of bodies.”

There were gasps, but none from Aidan, so Craig turned to his second DCI.

“You don’t seem surprised by that, Aidan.”

“Nope. It’s what I was planning to say.”

Liam wasn’t as convinced. “How in the name of God could bodies be missed? Even considering the high number of coves we have in Ireland.”

Ryan responded first.

“If our timings are right, the drop would have been sometime in early February, Liam. The Atlantic Ocean’s very rough in winter so they could’ve washed out to sea.”

Craig nodded. “We need to check. Davy, get on to the navy, Garda, coastguard and so on and ask them to do an aerial sweep of the whole coastline. Check the satellite imagery too.”

“They’ll want to speak to you, chief. For an explanation.”

“Fine. Take it as far as you can then give them my number. OK, anyone else have any ideas?”

Aidan signalled again. “All the bodies so far have been found in cliff coves, guv, so surely that’s where we should go looking first? Andy said there were only six of them around the coast so it could be a quick win.”

Craig smirked. He’d missed that one.

“Good catch. OK, Davy, put checks on those six coves on the top of your list. Andy can tell you exactly where to find them. Anything else? Anyone?”

When there was silence, Craig summarised, pacing as he did.

“What do we have? Multiple killings of seven men so far. No women have been killed, so I would contend that maleness is an important factor here. We have male killers hunting, torturing, murdering, and disposing of young males. On the coast. That’s also important, as are cliff coves.”

Davy raised a finger. “Can I put a pin in that list, chief?”

“Go on.”

“We can’t be sure yet whether all the selecting, abducting and the rest of the things you said was carried out by the same couple of men, or even that only men were involved throughout, although I’d say it was likely.”

Craig knew that he was right. He’d taken an end point that they were fairly sure had required men, the disposals, and allowed it to taint the whole sequence.

He nodded in agreement.

“Excellent, Davy. I made a basic mistake by assuming something. I still believe that men did all of this, because we very rarely, in fact it’s at less than the one percent level, see women torturing in the way our victims were tortured, and brute force would have been needed to abduct and carry strong youths, again not usually a female attribute. But you’re right. We can’t assume anything; we need to prove it.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed ominously and the words that he’d been expecting hit the air.

“Women can be strong too.”

He was ready for her. “Yes, they can, but it isn’t the norm, Mary, which is why I said ‘not usually a female attribute’.”

Liam’s loud, “BURN” wasn’t strictly necessary but no-one disagreed.

Craig left his red-faced constable giving him the evil eye and returned to his train of thought, picking up his pacing again as he did.

“So, for the sake of this discussion, I’m going to go with my assumption that only males committed these tortures and murders.”

Andy gave a weary sigh. “We’re a pretty disgusting gender really, aren’t we.”

Before Mary could agree with the sentiment, Liam defended his half of humanity.

“Speak for yourself, mate!”

The defence was an orphan in the room.

“We can have that discussion some other time, Liam, but for now let’s go with male-on-male abuse and murder. That leads us to; why?”

Liam got in first. “Sex or money, boss, has to be.”

Craig wrote the words on the board but instead of ‘or’ he wrote ‘and/or’.

“Anyone else?”

Aidan sat forward. “What about rivalry or jealousy? Even love.”

“You think the victims may have been known to their killers beforehand, rather than these being stranger abductions?”

“Why not? Maybe they were competitors for something, in business maybe. Or they might have been the killers’ lovers.”

Liam scoffed rudely. “That’s a hell of a lot of lovers, mate.”

“No, it isn’t. Just because your romantic life was a desert before you tied the knot doesn’t mean that everyone’s is.”

Craig’s glance told his deputy not to rise to the bait.

“Anyway, all I’m saying is we can’t rule it out yet, guv.”

“You’re right, we can’t.”

Craig hid his scepticism as he scribbled the words.

“What about gang initiations, chief?”

Craig looked around for the speaker and Davy raised his hand. “I just mean if it wasn’t the same men who did all the killings, then why would someone have done them?”

“And you think it could have been a ritual for people being jumped into gangs?”

The analyst pulled a face. “When you said it like that it sounds wrong.”

“I’ll add it to the list, Davy, but I honestly think we’re looking at the same perps for every death. OK, so we have a list of possible motives. Anything else?”

When there was silence, he decided to risk another assertion.

“Where the first bodies were found matters. County Cork. What do we know about killings and locations in general?”

Andy responded first.

“Nerves are a factor for everyone, so serial or spree killers rarely stray far from home to kill the first time. But they do avoid their immediate neighbourhoods. They place a protective circle around their homes and kill outside it. And they dispose of their kills even further away than where they kill them to divert the police, while still disposing of them in areas they’re familiar with and where they feel in control.”

“So, what would that mean here?”

“Well, the first two victims were left in south-west Cork, so I’d suggest our killers come from County Cork somewhere, and the first four were left in coves on the Atlantic west coast, so I’d say they’re particularly familiar with that stretch of sea.”

He indicated the marker in Craig’s hand. “May I?”

Craig threw it to him as he walked to the board.

“OK, we’re a bit limited here without knowing the dates and details of the first four victims’ actual abductions, but from our three victims’ scars Doctor Winter believes these killers keep their victims for months. That means they were held somewhere, so I’d say we’re looking for two sites. Both in the south.”

Liam cut in. “Two? How come?”

“One site will be where they moor their boat, and that’s probably near their home, and the second site will be where they torture and kill. That will be outside the protective circle around their home, but still somewhere familiar to them. It will be somewhere secluded, even isolated. A place where no-one could overhear the victims’ screams.”

“A lair, boss.”

Craig nodded.

“Can you do us a diagram, Andy?”

A sketch of Ireland’s western coastline with dots marking the disposal sites in Cork and Clare came quickly, then the DCI stood back to think.

“Their home is definitely coastal, because of their boat and the way they always choose a coast for disposal. They’re very comfortable on the sea.”

“I agree. So, home is somewhere on the Cork coast, but not close to Bantry?”

“That feels right.”

“And the lair, Andy?”

“Basing it on our Antrim Vics, the perps must have visited their victims over a long period to cause their different scars and bruises. Travel can get tiring, so they wouldn’t have wanted to go far. And I don’t know why, chief, but I feel like their lair’s more likely to be inland than near the sea. I think the sea matters to them, it’s important in some way, so tainting it by association with torture just doesn’t fit to me.”

Aidan cut in. “I agree. The way they dispose of the bodies in the water almost feels like some kind of offering. And I know that probably sounds weird.”

Craig shook his head. “It doesn’t actually. OK, and this question is for everyone, why the disposal of our three victims on the east coast? It’s a departure for the killers.”

Ryan answered him. “Maybe it was a feint to throw off the Garda? Leaving the bodies in Antrim wasn’t just east coast versus west but also in a different legal jurisdiction, so perhaps they thought that might slow any investigation?”

Mary made a different suggestion. “Or they’re marking the east coast as their territory now too?”

Andy came back in. “I wondered about that, but they could easily have left our three victims on the east coast down south if that was the only reason. Anywhere from Dundalk down to Wexford. I agree with Ryan, I think they were hoping to slow down the Irish cops by crossing the border. Plus, they already feel like they own the west coast so why not own the rest? We could see more bodies in the east soon, chief.”

Craig turned to his deputy. “And how would the King of Ireland feel about that?”

“Off with their heads!”

It lightened the mood and felt like a good time for a break.

“OK, let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

Liam motioned to delay a second. “Just… well, there’s something else about the drop sites too, boss. They move clockwise. Cork, then Clare, then Antrim, and maybe some Vics in between that we missed.”

The simplicity of it made Craig smile. “I completely missed that. You think it means something?”

“I think it could at least give us a clue where to look for missing Vics, and maybe where to expect the next lot. Whether it tells us anything useful about perps that we already know are screwed up, I couldn’t say.”

“Ash, remember that clockwise when you’re ordering the searches. The first searches for missing victims should focus between Counties Clare and Antrim, and be on Andy’s list of cliff coves. OK, everyone, take fifteen.”

It proved just the refresher that they needed and when they reconvened Craig changed tack.

“Davy, you were checking into the Christian camp, so can you update everyone on why and what you found, please.”

In a minute they all knew about the boys’ camp and what had closed it, and the first name of the investigation was introduced.

“Bishop Jocelyn Pankhurst, aged fifty-three. Head of the Church of Regus in Northern Ireland and Director of the camp from its opening in ninety-six to when it closed.”

The image of a thin, balding man with mutton chop whiskers appeared onscreen, prompting, “Well, he doesn’t look creepy at all!” from Mary, just as, “I know him!” blurted out of Aidan’s mouth.

Their words tangled in mid-air, so Craig waved both detectives down then turned to his tanned DCI.

“Repeat that, will you.”

Aidan gestured at the screen. “I know him, guv.”

“How?”

“We lifted him in Vice a few times.”

“For crimes against children?”

“No, men in their late teens.”

“The same age as our victims?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it. But he wasn’t a killer, guv. He was trying to pick up lads outside colleges.”

“Why was Vice interested if they were college age?”

“Complaints. The boys were straight and didn’t like being solicited-”

Liam cut in. “Why didn’t Pankhurst just go to a gay club?”

“I asked him the same question and he said that he preferred straight men.”

“He had a dilemma then.”

“Yep, and it earned him a broken nose on one occasion. Anyway, as the boys were legally adults, he was judged more inept than predatory and let go with cautions, but that was around ten years ago so I don’t know what’s he’s doing now. His behaviour might have escalated over the years.”

“Find out, please, Aidan. And find out if he has any links with the west coast or the sea generally.”

“Will do.”

Craig turned back to his analyst. “What else do you have on the camp, Davy?”

“It shut down in twenty-thirteen.”

“Or was shut down?”

“Well, there was no court order or anything like that, but after the physical abuse was uncovered the place was picketed by locals and reported in the press so often that no-one would send their kids there. Eventually, the church sold the land. It belongs to the council now.”

Craig tapped the desk thoughtfully for a moment. The camp had run for almost twenty years but only when the abuse was uncovered had its tenure came to an end.

“Tell us more about the abuse, please, Davy.”

“It was pretty much as you were told. Physical abuse was reported – beatings, bruises, boys being made to sleep rough in the woods, take cold showers and go for excessively long runs mainly. Also, there was quite a bit of verbal abuse and ‘fear of God’ employed to break them psychologically. But nothing sexual was ever reported, and not all the parents complained.”

“Lovely people.”

“Yeh, well, it seems that some of them approved of the camp’s tactics and were sad when the place shut.”

A noisy sigh from Liam made Craig smirk.

“OK, let’s have it.”

“Have what?” The deputy pursed his lips sanctimoniously. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“In a pig’s ear you don’t.” He made a beckoning gesture that translated as ‘let it rip’, so Liam did.

“Ach, well, I mean the absolute state of those parents! What the hell were they thinking? Beat my son, make him run twenty miles, chuck him in cold water and tell him that he’s going to hell, why don’t you? Did they think it would make them better men when they grew up? Some people aren’t fit to have kids, honestly. There should be an exam you have to pass before you’re allowed to breed.”

“And the fact that you disapprove has nothing to do with some of those tactics being employed at your school?”

That earned him a glare.

“No! Well, OK, the cold showers, maybe, but to be honest we were wee hallions so we needed discipline or we’d have run amok. But never the rest. If a teacher had ever hit me randomly, I’d have floored him!”

Everyone pictured a teenage Liam, probably already over six foot, and knew the teacher would have been dicing with death.

“I got the strap from the headmaster an odd time, but that was for real crimes.”

“Like?”

“Like tearing up the all-weather pitch in my Da’s old car.”

Craig rolled his eyes.

“OK, so we know that quasi sadism was practiced at the camp, we also know that its director solicited young men of our victims’ ages and that the camp was close to where our three victims were found, so we do need to look at Bishop Pankhurst. My gut says he won’t be linked with our killings, but we can’t bank on that so we need to rule him out. Aidan, dig deeper on his background and go and interview him. Take Mary along if she’s free.”

The DCI’s nod was Craig’s cue to change tack again, this time to one that he knew his analysts would enjoy.

“Right, we’ve covered the practical actions so let’s return to Ash’s theory about the pub.”

Liam chuckled. “You mean the one where the sadist, fetishist, rapist, and murderer all walked in at once? I wouldn’t fancy that as my local.”

“Nor me. Pick up on your theory, Ash.”

“That our Vics were either advertised on the Dark Web or abducted to fill orders from there?”

“Yes.”

The analyst threw his baseball cap on the desk and raked his hair.

“OK, so… it makes sense that if our killers are in this hunt for profit as well as pleasure that they’d need to find paying customers. Those people hang out in secret places to stop them being discovered by cops like you-”

Davy cut in. “Like the websites that paedophiles set up to communicate. But accessing those websites can be almost impossible unless you first prove you have the same perversion as the host, and could our killers possibly have all the perversions we’ve listed?”

Craig shook his head. “I don’t believe so.”

Ash took back the conversation. “Which means they need access to a bigger meeting place than one small paedophile website. The Dark Web is a cesspit made up of hundreds of sites, message boards, and groups. You can get any drug there you fancy, killers for hire, weapons; you name it and it’s there, including sexual perversions. You should all explore it, just to keep up-to-date.”

Aidan nodded vigorously. “I agree. Drop in and out occasionally to keep up with the changes, but be warned, I saw a lot of bad stuff working in Vice and even I was shocked by what I saw there. SCA monitors it constantly, but each team member is only allowed a short shift.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, then Liam broke it with his customary verve.

“So basically, we’re talking about perves’ corners for the fetishists and rapists, and different corners for sadists and maybe murderers?”

Ash shrugged. “Ideally, but even when there are separate groups there’s sometimes overlap.”

Craig pulled a face. “Overlap could be risky for our killers. Some fetishists are non-violent, and if they hear about rape or violence a few might even drop an anonymous tip to us. And there are sadists who like violence but are disgusted by rape. That’s why rapists are sometimes killed in prison. There’s honour even amongst some nasties.”

Andy roused himself from his Toblerone to join the debate. “But you are saying there’s a specific area on the DW where all those individuals can be found, Ash?”

“Yep. In the darkest, dirtiest part that holds the specialist groups. Where the weirdos lurk.”

Liam scoffed. “Anyone who goes there is a weirdo in my book, but I get your gist.”

The analyst went on. “And the chief’s right. Those groups are designed to be separate because of the overlap risks-”

Davy cut across him. “Which means our killers probably offered each group the chance to do or view the Vics separately. So, they stayed unaware of each other’s involvement.”

Ryan had been listening attentively in the way he always did, but now he shook his head.

“Unaware of each other’s identities perhaps, Davy, but not of each other’s involvement. Unless the sequence of violating our victims was extremely strict then non-violent offenders would have seen evidence of the violence. Our victims had scarring and that doesn’t appear overnight.”

The analyst acknowledged the point. “Sorry. The point I was trying to make was if they didn’t have names, they couldn’t have turned each other in to the cops.”

Ryan shook his head again, with uncharacteristic stubbornness.

“Yes, but that’s not the only important point. With due respect to what you said, chief, not all fetishists are sweet, non-violent innocents who just want to see people happy, as well as pleasing themselves of course. The ones that engaged with our victims can’t have been completely repulsed by violence because, even if they hadn’t seen their scars, they would have seen their misery and guessed what they’d been through. Yet they pursued their own pleasure anyway.”

Craig took his point. “Is there a level of refinement within the fetish community, Ash?”

“Probably, but Aidan would know more about that than me.”

The DCI nodded. “The answer’s yes. Everything in the world has a subculture, even sexual perversions. Think of it like music. Everyone in this office might say they’re a music lover but some of us will prefer opera, some jazz, and some heavy metal.”

Liam pulled a face. “Or none of the above.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. “You get my meaning. It’s feasible that some fetishists would have spotted the boys’ unhappiness or scars and shied away from any involvement, while others wouldn’t have and they were the ones who engaged. The first group is the one that would probably have reported to the cops if they’d had any names to pass on.”

“That’s useful. Thanks.” Craig turned back to his lead analyst and made a rewind motion. “Did you say ‘do or view’ a moment ago, Davy?”

“I did, sorry.” He turned to Ash. “Care to tell them why?”

“Nope. You said it so you can take the heat.”

Davy gave his junior a look that said he would make him pay later, then with a heavy sigh he explained.

“The thing is, chief, the number of people on the DW who could or would travel to commit the acts we’re talking about would be dwarfed by those who’d get off on just watching them being committed. That’s where ‘do?’ or ‘view?’ comes from. And we could be talking about millions of watchers, who if they’re all paying could be making our hunters very rich. A good internet camera would allow views so clear that the watchers might as well be in the roo-”

He was interrupted suddenly by a horrified, “Get off? Get off?!” from Craig’s PA. “Where did you learn that language, Davy Walsh? Did Ash teach you?”

The junior analyst’s indignant, “I did not teach him” was drowned out by Liam’s cheerful, “It could’ve been worse, Nicky. He could’ve said, ‘get their rocks off’ instead” and Craig’s subsequent loud groan as he palmed his face.

It was left to Aidan of all people to return decorum to the proceedings.

“Right, that’s enough of that, you lot. Nicky’s offended, so button it.”

Liam’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who appointed you the moral majority?” He answered his own question, chuckling. “Oh, I get it. You’re a reformed man now that you’re in luvvvvv.”

Aidan had been in a relationship with Deidre Murray, a DCI from Fraud and Robbery, for almost two years, and finally seemed to be settling after years of erratic bachelorhood.

To add insult to injury, Liam added a singsong, “Dee’s tamed her bad boy.”

Before the situation went to hell, Craig held his hands in a T-shape and shouted, “TIME OUT! Everyone, stop right now and take five minutes. And the half to my left take it off the floor.”

He watched gimlet-eyed as Aidan retreated to the opposite side of the office to his deputy, ready to cut them both off at the first word. But when Aidan merely gave Liam the evil eye and exited to the lift lobby, Craig had to admit it; he had mellowed. The Aidan he’d been at university with would have sprinted across the room and punched Liam in the face.

When the danger had passed, Craig sidled up to his secretary.

“You wouldn’t have a paracetamol, would you, Nicky?”

She handed two over with a contrite look. “Sorry, sir, that mess was my fault.”

He smiled ruefully at her. “Only part of it. Liam deliberately threw petrol on the flames. But do me a favour, Nick. As Andy said earlier, try to keep your horror under wraps until the briefing’s over or we’ll never get through it. OK?”

She nodded, then added defiantly, “But I reserve the right to say something one-on-one if it happens again. OK?”

“Have at it. It’s only when they get in a crowd that they run amok.” He turned towards the kitchen. “Now, I need a strong coffee to wash down these tablets.”

By the time the group had reconvened, Craig was sufficiently numbed by caffeine not to let anyone annoy him and smoothly picked up his thread where he’d left off.

“Right. We were discussing the monetising of abuse, torture, and murder.” He turned to his analysts. “Your theory is that through the advertising of our victims and/or perhaps even taking orders for their kidnapping, our hunters could have profited from their abuse and death. Yes?”

Both analysts nodded.

“And that money could have been made both by inviting people to take part in the abuse personally, thereby explaining the many different types of harm inflicted on our victims, and inviting others to pay to watch. Any ideas on how we could test that theory?”

Ash responded first. “First off, we’d have to find out where on the DW the killers advertised and streamed. They might be different places.”

Liam jumped in. “But if it was streamed wouldn’t anyone in the cesspit have been able to watch for free?”

“Not if they used a paid subscription model with password-only access. That would be my guess, chief. But the good news is that the initial advert should be easy enough to find.”

Davy interjected with, “Adverts plural.”

Ash considered the idea. “So, they’d have advertised separately to the fetish, rape and sadism groups?”

“Had to. And to the murderers. Worded it differently too, in case they put people off.”

Just then something occurred to Craig and he raised a hand to halt the debate.

“Has anyone here ever tried to sell something online? Or anywhere in fact?”

Mary raised a finger. “I sold my treadmill because I wanted to buy an exercise bike instead.”

“Recently?”

“Six months ago.”

“OK, good. That’s up-to-date knowledge. May I ask how you sold it? I mean on which platforms and whether you set a fixed price or auctioned it for instance.”

“Several different platforms, but it was important that the buyer was local so they could collect it, or at least so my dad would help me deliver it in his car.”

Craig lifted a marker and wrote up- 1) Location/proximity of buyer.

“Go on.”

“Well, that ruled out any national sales platforms without local customers, but brought in several smaller local platforms.”

“How many did you end up with?”

“I think it was three. Also, I put it in the Belfast Chronicle ads section and a local free paper that goes round the universities.”

“Was cost a consideration when you advertised?”

“Yeh. I only ran the Chronicle ad for one day because it cost too much. The others were all free platforms.”

2) Cost of advertising.

“And did you advertise the treadmill at a fixed price or accept bids?”

“I listed a price but added ‘or nearest offer’ so I could decide if an offer was close. I didn’t use auctions but lots of people do.”

3) Price ONO: ‘But don’t rule auctions out’

He finished listing the points then picked up a differently coloured marker.

“Excellent. Thank you. Right, let’s take these in turn. Location slash proximity. How important is that likely to be with our Dark Web customers?”

Andy answered first. “Not at all for the ones who just want to watch, but yes, it could be important to any who wanted to get hands-on with the victims. I mean, I can’t see many people, not even villains, travelling right across the world. Not even to get their kicks. Can anyone else?”

Liam shook his head. “Nope.”

Craig nodded. “So, for the doers the largest market would have been local. By local, I mean just a few hours travel, so let’s say our islands as outlined before. But the viewers could be anywhere in the world. Next point, Ash, is it free to place an advert on the Dark Web?”

“Some of the closed groups might charge a fee. Aidan?”

The DCI nodded. “I can check it out. But even if they do charge, guv, compared to the profit our killers stood to make I’d say they’d have written off the cost.”

“Agreed. OK…” Craig turned back to the board, perusing it for a moment before asking his constable another question.

“Mary, did you advertise your treadmill in a particular section?”

“The sports equipment section in most cases, although the Chronicle doesn’t have one of those so I listed it under general items.”

“Right. But we know that our killers might have been advertising several different services: first-hand experience or remote viewing of fetishism, sadism and so on, which means they would have had to advertise in several different groups-”

Andy cut in. “And word the advert differently each time, like Davy suggested. They’d have tweaked it to appeal to that specific audience. Maybe priced things differently too, depending on the service offered.”

Craig could see his secretary cringing and walked over to have a word.

“I think you should go for coffee, Nicky. There’s no need for you to hear this.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Thanks for the offer, but no, I’ll stay. It will be up on the board all week anyway and it’s best for me to keep up with the case.”

He patted her on the arm and retook his position by the board.

“OK, so different groups would need different wording of the adverts, and perhaps different pricing according to what people might wish to do in person. But would the price for viewing be universal?”

Aidan pulled a face. “I can’t see our fetishists wanting to watch everything, chief, so perhaps they only purchased time-selected access?”

“Excellent point. OK, I think we can agree that all the variables make this is a complex operation. I’m no sales or advertising expert but unless our killers are, and I think that could be a stretch, they’d have had to learn as they went along. And that means?”

Ryan gave a small smile. “There could have been mistakes.”

“Exactly. Mistakes in the wording, pricing, or placement of the ads especially, and if the wrong ad went to the wrong private group someone may have got disgruntled and complained. Does anyone know who there is to complain to on the Dark Web?”

Davy looked sceptical. “It’s a bit like the wild west in there, chief. Ash?”

“Yeh, I’d agree with that, but some of the specialist groups do have sheriffs. I mean moderators.”

“Not to moderate content, I’m guessing.”

“Unlikely. My guess is their job would be more to stop people threatening each other. Although… if someone had posted something that belonged in another group maybe they might remove that as well.”

Craig snapped his fingers. “Bingo! They might remove content that didn’t belong, like say in a fetish group if people complained that the opportunity to commit rape or torture was being advertised on their forum?”

The analysts exchanged a slow nod.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“And is that something you could use, Ash?”

“You mean, could I contact the fetish group moderators and see if they’d been asked to remove any adverts for violent crimes?”

“Exactly.”

The analyst scratched his head. “Well, these people like to stay under the radar, chief, and the DW really isn’t cop-friendly, so getting their cooperation might be a stretch.”

“I’m sure you could find some law-abiding people on there.”

Davy was sceptical. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Craig was undeterred.

“Shades of grey, Davy, shades of grey. Some people conceal their desires out of shame, not because they’re criminal. Most fetishes between mutually consenting adults aren’t crimes, so we wouldn’t be looking to prosecute the members of those groups. But as plenty of those members are likely to be non-violent, or even better, anti-violence, they might be persuaded to tell you about any violent ads that offended them. We can but ask. Ash?”

“I will, chief, I promise, but I’ll need to go up to SCA to do it. I could access the DW here but you really don’t want me messing up your system trying.”

“No, I definitely don’t. Last time you visited the Dark Web on our computers, I had porn ads popping up for a week and our intranet had to be debugged.”

He knew that Liam would be smirking at the revelation so he didn’t even look.

“Outline your approach, Ash.”

“OK. There’ll be a number of general fetish discussion groups and then sub-groups for different preferences, so I’ll explore them all.”

“Start with the hand fetish groups, and foot if there are some. Only the victims’ hands and feet looked cared for.”

“Is that what you meant earlier, when you talked about one of the perps first fetish?”

“Yes. All the Antrim victims’ hands had been massaged with a rose scented substance, but we’ll cover that a little later.”

“OK.”

“What next, Ash?”

Before the analyst could reply, Aidan raised a finger to speak, which was as close to an apology for the earlier fracas as Craig was likely to get.

“Yes?”

“I think SCA could be useful here. I mean beyond hosting Ash.”

“You were going to look into things with them. Vice as well.”

“Grand, but I was thinking more that their people could actually do all this stuff for us.”

Craig hemmed and hawed for a moment before shaking his head.

“No, I want Ash to do it because he’ll have an investigative approach, but if you can find a detective up there to work alongside that might be better, Ash.”

Aidan spoke again. “OK, but there’s something else SCA might be able to offer too, guv. They have officers whose job it is not just to monitor the DW but to go undercover.”

Craig’s eyebrows rose, then he wondered why he was surprised. Undercover work happened in lots of squads, so why not in SCA?

“Check that out, Aidan. If there’s a SCA member undercover, they may have seen the adverts and reactions to them so we could leave the group moderators alone.”

“Will do.”

“Good. Also, Aidan, all the boys had received manicures and as I said their hands anointed with something rose-scented Liam believes it was a natural oil not a shop-bought perfume, which seems like a very specific thing to me.”

“Me too. I’ll ask about it-”

Liam cut in. “We should discuss the lads’ paralysis and death by injection too, boss. For all we know there are people in the groups who would pay a lot to do or see those things.”

Craig nodded tiredly; the DW pond was heavy with scum and it was beginning to weigh him down.

He handed his deputy the board marker.

“You cover that and the list of other things that need checked out, Liam. Then join me in my office, please.”

The last sentence was delivered in a tone that everyone recognised and never wanted directed at them. Liam was in trouble.

Craig wasn’t planning on giving his deputy a rollocking exactly, but he was going to make him apologise to Nicky for the earlier debacle. The incentive to comply would be peace and harmony in their little world, not to mention ever getting a cup of tea made by the PA again.

Before Craig reached his office, Ash asked him a final question.

“One thing, chief. What time period should we be looking at on the DW?”

Seeing the tiredness in Craig’s eyes, Liam responded for him.

“OK, now here’s the thing, and I’m about to be brutal here, Nicky, so you might want to cover your ears.”

She fixed him with a stare that said, ‘Move on.’

“OK, then. Given it looks likely that our three lads had predecessors in Cork and Clare and we haven’t yet got the full details on those, we’ve no guarantee that we’ve seen the worst yet.”

No respecter of niceties, Mary came back with, “Are you talking about cannibalism?”

Craig jumped in swiftly before anyone else could speculate.

“Worst was perhaps the wrong word, given that all the victims are deceased, but different is definitely possible. As to your question on time, Ash. The Antrim victims’ injuries were up to two months old, so let’s look at missing persons, abductions and adverts over the past three.”

As he was speaking something new occurred to him. “Who was checking out similar crimes again?”

Davy signalled.

“I’d like you to look at sub-crimes, and possible precursors as well, Davy, across the islands. By that I mean not necessarily murders but evidence of abduction or failed abductions, forced fetishes, sexual assaults or torture in non-abductees, and anything else that you can think of. It’s possible that before our perps abducted and killed for the first time, they rehearsed what they were going to do, and if they did then they could also have made mistakes or left witnesses. Check male and female victims for those, and don’t limit yourself by age. They were still finding their feet. Liaise with Andy on anything that you find.”

He turned back to his junior analyst. “Depending on what Davy finds you may need to extend your time period for advertising, Ash. Also, you may need to look at some different groups.”

“Got it.”

Craig looked around the group.

“I’m aware there’s a lot to do and that we’re stretched with Annette away, but I don’t want anyone cutting corners on their personal safety. Do what you can here, but if you need to visit don’t do it alone. That’s non-negotiable.”

It was also logistically challenging so he added.

“Or inform Liam and we’ll go instead.”

A glance from his deputy said that they really needed a new sergeant to fill the gap left by Ryan’s promotion to inspector and he couldn’t disagree. It was his own damn fault; if he stopped urging his staff to go for promotions, they might keep a sergeant for longer than a few months.

Craig glanced at his watch and then sat on the nearest desk “I’ve changed my mind about going to my office.”

Aidan tutted. “Damn. You mean Liam’s off the hook?”

“Let’s just say that his well-deserved lecture is deferred.”

Even without looking, he knew that his deputy was smirking.

“This case is nastier than we’ve had in quite a while and it’s the weekend, so wrap up quickly, Liam, then let’s spend an hour on a late lunch at The James before you all get back to work.”

It sounded good, but Craig knew he wouldn’t switch off for five minutes until they’d caught the bastards responsible for these crimes.

Chapter Five

The Labs. Third Floor Forensics. 3 p.m.

Des Marsham was disgusted. With everything. The absence of fingerprint IDs, the DNA that his machine was running, the chemicals that had showed on analysis of their three victims’ injection sites, but most of all that the photograph accompanying the samples showed that their murder victims weren’t much older than his eldest son.

He thought back over the years he’d been married to Annie and their family had grown, to include Martin and their baby, nine-year-old Raff, the diminutive they now used for Rafferty after they, the poor child’s overly aspirational parents, had realised that not only couldn’t he spell his name but his lisp stopped him pronouncing it properly and the combination had been making him the butt of jokes and chants at school.

Rafferty Marsham had been tortured into ‘Raspberry Marshmallow, a chewy sweet’, ‘Ravverty Marsh, special agent’, and the rest. He was still convinced that the boy would love his name when he was older, when it would imply a rakishness and savoir faire of benefit to his later teenage years; but at primary school it was a heavy burden, so Raff it now was.

But before Des’ bachelorhood had morphed into coupledom and new-parenthood to make him the ‘settled father of two’ that he now was, life and his job had seemed so much… simpler.

Yes, he’d chosen forensic criminology for its scientific interest, the constantly developing techniques and advances meaning that he was rarely bored, especially now when new discoveries were written up in the journals every week, but he had also chosen it because while he, like millions of others, was fascinated by what made criminals do what they did, he had never wanted to see their damage up-close in the way John and the murder squad did.

They saw the truth of evil; the blood and gore and broken, lifeless bodies that had once held breath. They saw the rawness of man’s inhumanity to man and the horror and devastation of the loved ones left behind in a way that he never had to, bearing witness to how murder brought pain to their remaining years.

And when a young person was killed, as three had been that week, those years of mourning might stretch to decades. And for what? For the selfish, ravening needs of a killer. For their lust for satiation or power, or sometimes simply for the sight of blood.

You excite me or I envy you or you make me angry or I can make a profit from your pain. Base desire.

He had chosen not to see it, picking a career on crime’s periphery instead. And while he could perhaps have coped better with the violent realities when he was young and free, now, today, as a father of sons even seeing their three victims’ faces in a photo it was requiring all his energy not to be overwhelmed.

It was in that state that Craig and Liam found the scientist when they arrived refreshed from their long lunch. Leaning over a PC silently urging it to hurry, his forehead pressed low against its cool screen and with one fist clenched so tight they knew he was trying not to punch through its glass.

As he took in the scene from the lift, Craig held his deputy back from approaching and diverted them to Grace’s desk instead.

Asking, “How long has Des been like that?” quietly, he read concern on the CSI’s face.

“Since Doctor Winter sent up the samples earlier. And he’s normally so cheerful too.”

Liam caught on first. “Did the Doc send photos with them?”

She nodded glumly and disappeared to make drinks, leaving the policemen at her desk and Craig curious.

“Why did you ask about photos, Liam?”

“It’s his boys, boss. He looked at the photos and saw them instead. His Martin’s nearly the same age as our Vics.”

Craig was startled. First at his deputy’s sensitivity, Liam not known for displaying his finer feelings even when he actually had some, and second, that neither of them had reacted as strongly to their victims, given that they both had sons as well.

Liam read his mind. “Ah, but ours are a lot younger. Makes it harder to compare. And don’t you think I didn’t see your shock that I have a heart, you cheeky sod.”

“Oh, I know that you have a heart, Liam, it’s just that your stomach usually takes precedence.”

That brought a guffaw and the loudness of it broke Des’ trance. As he turned towards the sound, he seemed surprised to find the murder detectives there.

“When did you two arrive?”

“Just a minute ago. Grace is making drinks, so come and join us.”

The sounds of hot liquid singing its way into the china cups the CSI always used, plus Liam’s tale of Andy changing his lunch order at The James three times before he’d settled on the most boring thing on the menu, soup, and then complained about it, kept Des from sinking back into his fugue long enough for Craig to navigate the questions that they’d come to ask.

The route was eased by the appearance of cake, and after Des had taken a sizable bite of his slice Craig gauged that it was safe to move. It was hard to be miserable with a truckload of sugar hitting your brain.

“So, Des, I know you’re probably just running the boys’ fingerprints now, but it would be great to get an ID on at least one of them because at the moment we’re completely in the dark.”

When the scientist’s response was to take another, larger bite of cake, Grace stepped in.

“Their prints have only been running ten minutes, but I may have found something on your fair-haired victim a different way.”

With a click she cleared her screen saver, a view of the Serengeti so sunny that it had actually made Craig feel warm, and a post-mortem image of the victim in question appeared.

Turning the screen hastily away from her boss, the CSI clicked again, splitting the screen with a second photograph of the same youth alive.

“I’d just started checking this when you arrived, so bear with me for a moment.”

As the detectives watched, she applied dots and vectors to both images. They were soon overlaid by the words ‘ninety-eight percent match’.

Liam was impressed. “That’s a handy tool, lassie.”

“It’s standard in the US but we only got it last week. I’ve sent Davy a copy. It should make ID-ing without a print-match much easier.”

“Where did you get the live photo, Grace?”

“The EU passport database pinged.”

As she was speaking, Craig leaned in to peer at the screen, trying to read some words below the images.

“Would you enlarge that, please, Grace?”

“I will, but it just says his name. Nicholas Sanders.”

Liam sniggered. “I could read it easily so you must need glasses, boss.”

“Not according to my optician. OK, Grace, see what you can find on Mister Sanders, please.”

Just then, there was a clang of china as Des jerked out of his sugar coma.

“You’ve got a name?! How?”

“Grace ran a facial recognition programme. So, Grace, anything more on the boy?”

“Nicholas Sanders, aged nineteen. From somewhere called Athenry.”

“That’s a town in County Galway, boss. About fifteen miles east of Galway City itself.”

Their Antrim victims weren’t from Northern Ireland!

County Galway was in the west of the Ireland, further north than Counties Cork or Clare.

As they’d feared, the perpetrators were casting a net over the whole island.

“Go on, please, Grace.”

She raced through Nicholas Sanders’ birth, schooling, and family until she reached, “He was a second-year medical student at the University of Galway, UCG” and stopped.

Craig’s mind went immediately to what might have made a presumably bright and fit young man so vulnerable that he’d been abducted, and where it might have taken place.

That’s if Nicolas Sanders had been abducted. Should they be considering enticement instead, using a woman, a party, or even drugs?

Grace was still reading. “It says in these notes-”

Des waved her down for a moment. “Where are you sourcing this from?”

“I just put his name into the Irish government database and this is what popped up.”

Dual access north and south, while still limited, had been a recent boon to shared working, but to Craig’s mind a short summary screen could still never replace a detailed paper file.

“He had a criminal record?”

“No. This is just general stuff.”

“Right. Carry on, please.”

“Well, it says here that Nicolas Sanders was last seen on the afternoon of Saturday the twenty-fifth of February. Outside a shop in Merryman Square in Galway City Centre.”

Abducted in broad daylight? That probably knocked a drunken party on the head.

A sudden, “Oh!” from the CSI made Des lurch forward.

“What? What else have you found?”

Not waiting for an answer, he turned her computer screen towards him. His falling face told the detectives that he was looking at something bad.

“What is it, Des?”

The scientist turned the screen back. “Read for yourself.”

Liam did. Aloud.

“Nicholas and Felix Sanders disappeared in Galway City and haven’t been seen since.”

“Felix?”

“His ten-year-old brother. The two of them had gone into town to check out some computer game launch.”

Craig didn’t know whether to be depressed that the ten-year-old was still missing or happy that they hadn’t found him dead in the cove. Any positivity was tempered by the stats on child abductions; two months after the event the boy’s chances of still being alive were slim.

“Can you source a photo of Felix?”

A few taps later a boy with clear blue eyes and a thick mop of brown hair was grinning out at them from the screen.

Craig pushed for more detail.

“Nicholas obviously took his kid brother to town for the launch of the new game. We need to know more about that. Was the launch a big deal?”

Another search pulled up an article from a local Galway newspaper that showed a long queue outside a city centre shop.

“That’s a big crowd, boss. The perfect hunting ground for teenage boys.”

“Agreed. But how would our killers have separated the Sanders brothers from the herd?”

“Felix would have followed his big brother, so it was only Nicholas that they had to persuade-”

Des cut in. “More importantly; how did they get the boys away from the game? That’s what they were queuing to see after all, so it wouldn’t have been easy to distract them from it. You’d need pliers to detach my kids from a new computer game.”

Grace had an idea.

“What if the kidnappers already had the game and offered it to Nicholas cheap? That might have got him to follow them.”

Des nodded in agreement. “Especially if they’d said they had it set up ready to try. Have you ever played a computer game? They’re so addictive that anyone with a new one would be a Pied Piper to kids.”

Liam wasn’t convinced.

“But how would the perps have got their hands on a copy if it was only being launched that day?”

“Was it though? Or was it only being made available in Galway that day? And what about counterfeits?”

Craig said nothing, deep in thought. Would Nicholas Sanders really have followed a stranger just to see a game? And if he had, what was it about that stranger that had made Nicholas trust them?

Liam voiced one of the questions himself.

“OK, so why follow? Maybe the kid wanted to and was pushing Nicholas? Grace, what date is Felix Sanders’ birthday?”

“The twenty-seventh of February.” As she finished the sentence she gasped. “Two days after they disappeared! Nicholas must have been treating his little brother to the game for his birthday.”

Liam nodded smugly. “That’s our answer! An excited kiddie, and a long queue with the chance that the game could be sold out by the time they reached the front of it. That could have given Nicholas the push. Maybe the stranger offered to sell him a copy as well as demonstrate the game.”

Craig applauded his deputy. “Good catch, Liam.”

“Aye, well, we were all kids once, weren’t we, so I just put myself back there. OK, so big bro takes little bro into town to buy him the game for his birthday, but maybe the crowd was so big that they thought they would never get into the shop, or by the time they did the game would be sold out. Whatever happened, if someone offered them a chance to buy the game quicker or cheaper, Nicholas might’ve said yes.”

Grace shook her head ruefully. “Two girls would have stayed in the crowd where it was safe.”

“Aye, well, boys don’t wise up till they’re twenty-odds.”

Craig chuckled. “And some take a lot longer than that. OK, we’ll follow that idea through in a moment but first I’d like to pick up on what Des said. Was this game available elsewhere before the twenty-fifth, and how easy is it to counterfeit computer games? Liam, ask Davy to chase those up when we get back.”

“I could do, but remember that the stranger only had to lie and say they had the game, boss.”

Craig considered for a moment then nodded. “True. OK, scrap that request. So, let’s just say the boys did follow someone, what does that tell us about that someone? Why would Nicholas have trusted a perfect stranger, especially with his young brother in tow?”

Des responded first. “The stranger must have been young too. Nicholas would have been more likely to trust someone nearer his own age than his dad’s. Less predatory.”

Grace opened a blank screen, typed ‘Young’ and sat ready for whatever came next.

“OK, so they were young, or youngish. Not a kid, but twenties maximum? Anyone disagree on that?”

When there were murmurs of agreement, the CSI added ‘Late teens or twenties’ to her list.

“So, how many people do we think approached Nicholas?”

There was an emphatic, “One” from Liam.

“No more? Not two or three?”

“Nope. One. Nicholas would have been protective of his kid brother and more than one stranger mightn’t have felt safe. He was only a slight lad, remember, boss. Actually… that means the stranger must have been average build too, I mean not a pumped-up type. That would have felt too threatening.”

Craig nodded.

“OK, add ‘one person of average height and build’ to your list, please, Grace. OK, Devil’s Advocate time. Why not a woman? Wouldn’t Nicholas have been more likely to follow a young woman than a man? I’m assuming for now that he wasn’t gay.”

The others exchanged looks and then Des said, “OK, nobody gets to call me sexist for this-”

Craig cut him off with a laugh. “I’d say we’re deep in stereotype land already.”

“True. So, I’m going to say that statistically not as many women are interested in computer games as men, and the likelihood of them being really interested in the newest one, enough to queue for it, or of Nicholas believing that was credible, wouldn’t have been high.”

He winced, waiting to be berated, but to his surprise everyone including Grace agreed, although she did add a reason.

“We’re not interested because we’ve better things to do with our time.”

No-one daring to contest the point, Craig picked up his thread.

“Right, so we’re sticking with the Sanders brothers being approached by a lone male stranger, young, of average height and build, but what we know must have happened later is that stranger was joined by others, because both Sanders boys disappeared that day and he couldn’t have subdued them both alone.”

“Also, it can’t have happened in the street, boss.”

“I agree. Which means he led them somewhere private, ostensibly to view the game. And it must have been somewhere close to the gameshop otherwise they would have got bored walking and turned back. Put ‘central, private location’ on your list, Grace.”

As she typed, Liam added. “The perps would likely have held the boys there till dark before moving them. And even if it was somewhere central it would’ve been too close to other buildings. That risked someone hearing them shouting and calling the cops, so the brothers must have been restrained or sedated so they couldn’t make noise.”

“Everyone agree on all that?”

There were several nods.

“I agree too, except perhaps on the night-time move but we can come back to that. Add ‘night-move’ and ‘restraint-slash-sedation’ to the list, please. Now, Grace, how quickly were the police alerted to the boys’ disappearance?”

“The notes here say that the brothers were supposed to be meeting their parents and younger sister at a restaurant in town at six o’clock and when they hadn’t turned up by twenty-past their father phoned Nicholas. When he didn’t answer his mobile after several tries the father called the police.”

“How was the phone not answered? I mean, did it cut to answerphone, was the line dead or did it ring out?”

“It doesn’t say here.”

“OK, add a query on that to your list. It may help with phone location. What happened next?”

“Because of Felix’s age a child abduction alert was called immediately and major resources were poured into the search for over two weeks, but they found no trace of either boy.”

Liam tutted noisily. “Criminals have the advantage every bloody time. They just need to sit tight somewhere while we chase our tails.”

Craig frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps… I’d like to revise something on your list, Grace. I don’t think they did wait until nightfall to move the boys, although that may have been the original plan. I think they got out of town quickly.”

“Because?”

“Because of Felix’s age. I don’t think the perps intended to take a child, but there was no way Nicholas would have left him alone in the crowd. As soon as they took Felix a child abduction alert was a given and the town would have been cordoned off, so they had to change their plans and escape before it was.”

He turned to his deputy.

“I know it’s a long shot, but if we could find a car leaving Galway City Centre on that afternoon-”

“More like a van or SUV, boss. They had two boys to transport remember, and with Nicolas being full-grown they wouldn’t both have fitted in a boot.”

“One boy could have been dozing in the back seat. Surely no-one would have questioned that?”

Liam shook his head adamantly.

“They would if they’d recognised them, and with Felix’s age both boys’ photos would have been plastered everywhere sharpish, not to mention sent to people’s phones, so why take the risk? I grew up in a small community, boss, and if anyone had seen Nicholas or Felix asleep in the back seat of a car, they would have reported it to the cops. We need to check it out at least, surely?”

“You’re right, we do. OK, request the full case notes and whatever CCTV the Garda found, Liam. Grace, email that list to Davy, please.”

Craig nodded decisively and rose to leave, only to be stopped by Des staring at him, confused.

“Was there something else, Des?”

“I thought you came here for results.”

“What? God, sorry, of course we did.” He retook his seat. “What do you have for us?”

“Well, the boys’ prints are still running so nothing there yet, but there was unknown DNA found beneath one of their fingernails. It came from a sliver of skin. I’m running that for hits now. It may not come back with a match but it will give you something to compare against when you find suspects.”

Craig had grave doubts the skin would belong to one of their killers; from what he’d seen so far, they were too smart to leave such an obvious clue, but he said, “Great” anyway in acknowledgment of the work.

“Also, John was right on the cause of death. Two of the boys were injected with Fentanyl. A fatal dose judging by their blood levels.”

“So, death would have been painless?”

“Most likely. They would have lost consciousness very quickly, although one of the boys had damage to his septum that suggested past cocaine usage so the Fentanyl may not have acted quite as quickly on him. He could have had a higher tolerance to drugs generally.”

“Which boy?”

“John said the pale one. Does that mean anything to you?”

Craig nodded. Clearly not all their victims had been squeaky clean in life. It didn’t diminish his disgust at how they’d been treated, but it might have some relevance as to how they’d been snatched.

He realised something. “You said two of the boys were given Fentanyl, Des. What about the third?”

“He was far less fortunate. His injection contained Carbolic Acid, Phenol, so death would have been slower. and because of where it was injected excruciating. He had dark hair according to John.”

Craig’s jaw clenched as he imagined the boy’s suffering. It hadn’t been enough that he was tortured and beaten, someone had decided to inflict a final insult on him in death.

He swallowed his anger and rose again to leave. “Thank you, Des. Grace, if you could face-match the other two victims for us, that would be great, but if you’re busy Davy can do it.”

She shook her head. “I’d like to see it through, if that’s OK?”

The question was aimed at Des, who nodded in reply.

“Good. I’ll send over whatever I find.”

“Thank you.” Craig gave a weary sigh. “Look, this case is a horror, so it’s bound to affect people.”

Des knew the comment was meant for him.

“An even bigger horror now with a missing ten-year-old. If Felix Sanders isn’t dead, what do you think they’ve done with him, Marc?”

“Something different and not good, that’s all I can say. Let’s just pray that younger siblings weren’t taken with the other victims as well.”

But that wasn’t all he said when they arrived back at the car.

When, “DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!” ripped through the air, Liam clicked open the doors and motioned him inside.

“You can’t go losing it in the street, boss, but feel free to have at it now.”

The expletives that came next were stronger than Craig’s usual fare but he felt better for them. And exhausted by the thought of what lay ahead.

“The rest of the team is busy so we may have to go to Galway, Liam, and wherever else our Antrim victims hailed from. If there are threads to be picked up on their abductions then that’s where they’ll be.”

“Let’s wait till we have all their details and take time to consider, boss. The Guards might send us materials to work on at the ranch.”

Craig looked askance at his normally impulsive deputy.

“That’s very measured of you, Liam. Are you not feeling well?”

“Har har. Put it down to me practicing for my board. But am I wrong?”

“No. We’ll need to liaise with the Guards in advance of any trip anyway, to streamline things. Let’s just hope Grace finds those other two names today.”

The deputy said nothing for a moment, then, “I have an idea” hit the air in such a portentous tone that Craig couldn’t resist a smirk.

“Dazzle me with your ingenuity, Chief Superintendent.”

“God, I love that title. OK, here goes. It seems to me that manpower will be an issue in this case, what with the number of Vics, the pervert angle and Annette away. Yes?”

“Yes, and?”

“How about borrowing a sergeant or two? Experienced ones preferably. We won’t have the time for any ‘see one, do one’ teaching crap.”

Craig puffed out his cheeks before replying.

“You’re not wrong, Liam, but from where is the question. All the other murder teams are stretched. There’s been a spate of stabbings lately and a murder for inheritance that’s messy, so I can’t poach anyone from there.”

The deputy was having none of it. “Ach, you run two other sections now, man, not just murder! There’s bound to be someone you can steal.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “One of those sections is Intelligence where nobody’s done street work for donkeys’ years, not dressed as themselves anyway, and the other section is SCA and we’ll already be working with them. If I tell Marlene Porteon that I’m poaching one of her expert sergeants to do basic interviews she’ll pitch a fit.”

Liam saw his point. “Aye… you might be right. In any case, they’d probably turn every routine interview into a perve hunt.”

The pair chuckled at the thought, then Craig spoke again.

“But you aren’t wrong in principle, Liam, and I’ve just thought of someone else who might help us. Andy White.”

DCS Andy White was head of the Trafficking Unit, and if any detectives were experienced in street work his were.

“If Andy could spare us a sergeant-”

“Or two. Or maybe even a sergeant and an inspector, boss.”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

“Ach, OK, just the sergeants then. But we’ll need them for at least a week, mind.”

“Agreed. That would make things more doable, wouldn’t it?”

“Aye. After we’ve done the prelims down south, they could go down and interview the parents, friends and what have you. They couldn’t go far wrong there, could they?”

“I doubt they’d go wrong anywhere, Liam. People need to have held rank on another team before Andy will take them so we’ll be looking at sergeants who are inspectors in all but name.”

“Right then.” He started the car. “Time to go begging.”

When they reached the main gate of the science park he indicated right.

“Where are you going? The CCU is left.”

“Aye, it is, but I was raised properly. If we intend to pay Andy a begging visit, we should probably head to a booze shop and get him a good gift.”

****

The Trafficking Unit. Eighth Floor.

As it turned out, Liam’s decision saved their bacon. Although, if anyone had asked Craig beforehand whether a gift, or, to call a spade a spade, a bribe, might have been needed to secure Andy White’s assistance he would almost certainly have said no.

He and the perennially blue-shirted DCS, because his wife had told him that blue really made his eyes pop, had been friends since the bad old days of the late-noughties when they’d done a stint as leather-jacketed DCIs cruising the mean streets of Belfast like they were Starsky and Hutch.

God’s gift to humanity with their Glocks and fast cars, although in truth they’d probably looked more like the Keystone Cops than the seventies’ icons, in their minds they had been legends; young, cool, villain-catchers. That arrogance had probably kept them alive.

As Craig looked across the desk at Andy White, he thought that they hadn’t changed much, something that Liam was quick to spot.

“Ach, look at him, Andy. Sitting there all misty-eyed, no doubt picturing the pair of you back in the day when you had six-packs and imagining that you’re still the same.” He gave an amused snort. “You wish.”

Craig turned on him indignantly. “I was not imagining that! I was thinking about our case. Anyway, I still have a six-pack. Well, four at least.”

Andy, although perennially amiable, something that he put down to his Derry roots, people in the Maiden City being associated with the traits of cheer and resilience as well as their tendency to dot their speech randomly with the word ‘hey’, went with Liam this time.

“I was thinking back actually, Marc. To that time when we were tailing someone in that city centre café and that snout of yours, you know the one with teeth so bucked they were nearly horizontal, warned us that we were being targeted.”

Craig chuckled at the old war story. “Raker Murphy! God, I haven’t seen him around for years.”

He turned to his deputy. “Although targeted wasn’t the word that Raker used. He said we’d been ‘tagged for a whacking’ as far as I recall. We’d been tailing a republican dissident for a week and it seemed that we were spoiling his social life with our presence. Something to do with his mistress complaining about us always being parked outside her house.” He turned back to the Derry man. “I can’t recall how we got out of that one, can you?”

Andy chuckled. “I can, hey. You walked straight up to the terrorist bastard one day while I circled around behind him, and while he was mouthing off at you, I shoved my gun in the back of his neck. He nearly lost his lunch.” He turned to Liam. “It was Marc’s plan, hey, and it could’ve ended both of us, but it actually worked. They left us well alone after that.”

To both their surprise, Liam looked horrified. “You might have been killed!”

Craig shrugged. “Sometimes you need to tackle things head-on. We’ve both seen what happens when threats are allowed to run unchecked.”

He was referring to an episode just before Christmas when a Loyalist gang lord had broken into his home and held Katy and their son at gunpoint. He’d met a sticky end, courtesy of a CIA agent that they’d been on a case with, but it had convinced Craig that threat had to be met with threat, just as he’d done in his far less mellow youth.

“OK, Rambo. I believe you.”

Andy chuckled again. He always enjoyed it when the murder ’tecs came to visit, even though it rarely came without a request. He wondered what today’s would be.

“And in that spirit of tackling things head-on, Marc, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

That was Liam’s cue to lift the brown paper bag that he’d placed at his feet when they’d entered and set it on the desk.

Andy eyed it drolly, “Wow, It’s a paper bag. Very green of you, hey. Do I want to know what’s inside it?”

When Liam whipped out the bottle of whisky that Craig had said was White’s favourite tipple, they saw his eyes light up.

“Laphroaig! I love that stuff.” He stopped suddenly, squinting suspiciously at the detectives. “What’s it going to cost me, hey?”

“Ask the boss. He paid for it.”

That was Craig’s cue.

“Funny you should ask that, Andy. We’ve just caught a triple murder case, and it starting to look like it might involve the whole island, but, well, Annette’s on holiday for two weeks and while we’re in the process of recruiting a sergeant we haven’t managed to secure one yet, so…”

When White made a ‘giddy up’ motion, he obliged and, “We wondered if you could lend us one of yours? Or even better two?” came blurting out.

“Just for a week,” followed hastily and, “I’ll owe you one” was tagged on at the end.

The result was the Trafficking boss resting back in his chair, steepling his fingers together and saying, “Now we get to it” in an ominous tone.

It was too much for Liam. “What’s with the Bond villain act? Next thing you’ll be stroking a cat and twirling some imaginary moustache.”

Andy’s attempt at cool buckled instantly and he started to laugh.

“Busted. But speaking of moustaches, did I ever tell you about Marc’s moustache phase back in the day?”

Liam turned immediately to his boss. “Him? Sure, the man’s never without an electric razor. He shaves at least once a day in the office.”

It was true. Craig was constantly at war with his dark beard, and greeted weekends with relief because he could dispense with scraping a razor across his chin.

“Aye well, back in the day he decided to make a statement of it instead, hey. Honest to God, you wouldn’t believe the moustaches he grew. There was a Che Guevara, a Horseshoe, a Tombstone, about all he didn’t grow was a Fu Manchu. We weren’t allowed to grow beards in those days or he’d probably have had a go at those as well.”

“Boy, am I ever glad I’m pale. I couldn’t grow a beard if I had six months.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, very entertaining, boys. Make fun of the hairy Italian, why don’t you? Andy, is this your way of saying you will help us on our staffing issue or just torture?”

The DCS toyed with the idea of further torment then decided against it. They all had work to do and it wasn’t getting done while they were sitting around shooting the breeze.

“Ach, yes, I’ll help you, and you didn’t need the whisky to seal the deal, although thanks very much. Right, tell me what sort of sergeant you need, hey.”

“Sergeants plural?”

“Don’t push it, Marc.”

“But it sounds like you have a lot of them.”

“I have three, hey, but you only get to poach one. Your squad’s top heavy, man – how many DCIs and inspectors do you have again?”

Liam volunteered, “Four” cheerfully. “Plus me.”

“Holy hell. Aye well, my squad’s weighted towards the lower ranks with only one DCI and no inspectors, so one of my sergeants is all you get. So, what sort do you want? They’re all good, but I have one who specialises on the financial side, one with a lot of experience on the street, and the third’s a bit of everything.”

Craig thought for a moment then inquired tentatively, “Are any of them female?”

“Two. Why? Are you trying to balance up your team as well? Now you come to mention it, Murder is a bit of a testosterone fest.”

Craig nodded. “You could say that, and with Annette away on holiday Mary’s on her own.”

Liam snorted rudely. “You sounded like you wanted to add ‘poor wee girl’ just then, boss, when she’s actually well fit for us.”

“If you mean Mary doesn’t take any nonsense, you’re right, Liam, especially from you.”

“I’m an angel!”

Craig scoffed. “This from the man who once asked her if she’d ‘sharpy-ed’ her eyebrows because she was following fashion by making them look thick. Anyway, yes, Andy, a female sergeant for a week would balance things a little in Annette’s absence. Is your generalist female by any chance?”

“Yep. And she’s excellent. Gabriella Sutton.” He walked to his cabinet and brought back a file, sliding it across the desk to Craig. “Great interviewing skills, good shooting scores, and as hard working as hell. Witty too once she feels comfortable with you. She’d give you a run for your money, Liam.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, young sir.”

As Craig leafed through the file, he asked another question. “Has Sergeant Sutton ever worked with the Guards?”

“She’s liaised with them for me several times. Trafficking crosses a lot of borders. Are you thinking of sending her south, hey?”

“For interviews, possibly, and you said that she’s good at those. But also, we’ll be doing a lot with them on the phone.”

“Gabriella can get blood from a stone and leave the stone feeling good about it.”

Craig nodded. She sounded perfect, but…

“Do you think she’ll be interested, Andy? I don’t want anyone ordered to comply.”

The DCS rose to his feet. “Let’s ask her, hey.”

Craig waved him down quickly. “She’ll hardly feel able to refuse if we’re all staring at her, so how about you ask all your sergeants if anyone’s interested after we’ve gone, and hopefully one will be. If it’s Sergeant Sutton, great, but I’d be happy with anybody. We’re briefing tomorrow at nine, so they can just turn up then.”

White nodded. “That’ll do nicely. But you really don’t need to give me this whisky, hey, I’m happy to help out.”

Liam smirked. “Ach now, you just keep it in your drawer. That way you can pour us a nip the next time we’re down.”

It sounded like a deal.

****

When they arrived back in the squad-room it was to a lot of activity and Craig asked his PA what it was about.

“I’m not sure, sir. It all started after a phone call from Grace.”

The victims’ IDs.

“Who did she speak to?”

“Andy.”

He walked straight to the DCI’s desk and found him gazing at a table on his screen. It had three columns and at the top of each was a name, one of which, Nicholas Sanders, he recognised.

“You spoke to Grace?”

“Yes. She called through twenty minutes ago with the Antrim Vics’ names, so I asked everyone to drop what they were doing for an hour to see what we could find.”

“Good thinking. Can you give me anything now or do you need more time?”

The DCI glanced questioningly at Davy and Aidan. “Do we have enough yet to brief the chief?”

The analyst’s nod was caveated with, “Enough, but not everything,” drawing a thumbs-up from Craig.

“Let’s go with what you have then.”

A loud whistle from Liam called the room to order and he herded everyone towards the front, where Craig updated them briefly on their visit to the labs before handing over.

“On you go, Andy.”

The detective nodded Davy to display his table onscreen, keeping it dark until he was ready.

“OK, this is based on work that Grace did and we’ve expanded on in the last thirty minutes. It’s very superficial but we’ll keep digging. OK?”

There was a series of nods.

“Reveal the first column only, Davy.”

It was headed ‘Nicholas Sanders’.

“Would you like to take this one, chief? Seeing as you already discussed him at the lab.”

Craig nodded his deputy to do it and a minute later the whole team knew about the Sanders brothers’ tragic afternoon.

As Liam ended with, “Van or SUV, so we’ll need to see what CCTV the Garda has” Aidan frowned.

“What are you thinking happened to the kid, Liam?”

The DCS sighed wearily.

“Look, we all know the stats for child abductions. Survival past twenty-four-hours is almost nil. But say he isn’t dead, and we have to believe that and keep looking until we find a body, whatever’s happening to the boy won’t be good.”

Aidan frowned. “I get that. But I suppose I really meant, why?”

Craig stepped in. “Why take Felix at all you mean?”

“Yeh. Everyone knows that abducting a young kid sets off a country-wide alert, guv, so why bother with all that hassle?”

Andy came back in. “And risk, chief. They had a specific target in mind, Nicholas presumably, judging by the other victims, so anyone else would have been extraneous to requirements and just added to the risk of them getting caught.”

“Unless there was an abduction order that included a younger boy on this occasion, but that’s unlikely. To answer your question, I think this was simply an operation that went wrong, Aidan. They meant to abduct Nicholas and he just happened to have the child with him, so what do you do in that situation? If they’d left Felix in the computer game queue, he could have, would have, set off the alarms earlier than they’d wanted and described at least one of them to the cops.”

Aidan came back in. “So, they let him come with his brother, I get that. But they must have known then that taking a ten-year-old meant only hours before the cops got on their tail.”

Liam shook his head. “Only if Felix’s disappearance was reported, and by taking both brothers there was always a chance that the family might have delayed reporting. They could have thought Nicholas had taken Felix somewhere and wouldn’t have wanted to overreact.”

Craig nodded. “And the abductors couldn’t possibly have known that the brothers had arranged to meet their parents for a meal or that their father would have been so on-the-ball when there was no reply to his calls.”

Mary asked a question. “Doesn’t all this imply that the abductors didn’t really know their target? I mean, if they’d done their research, they should have known Felix would be with his big brother that afternoon. And that they were a close family that would have shown immediate concern.”

“To certain extent I agree, Mary, although I don’t see how they could have known about the dinner arrangement even if they’d researched Nicholas thoroughly. But yes, I think you’ve hit on something there. Their choice of Nicholas may have been entirely based on how he looked from a distance-”

The constable cut in. “They might not even have known his name prior to abduction. Or if they did and had done a family search, it might well have been cursory and their awareness of a younger brother may have been nil.”

“Unless they were kidnapping Felix to a specific order, and we have no way of knowing that yet.”

Liam had been frowning as he’d listened and he explained why. “That bit about how Nicholas looked, boss. Could that mean they scoped out places where young people gathered? They would be target-rich environments.”

“You mean like a medical school campus? And Nicholas was just the unlucky student who caught their eye? It’s possible.”

Andy cut in. “I think it’s more than possible, chief. Davy, unblock the lower half of the table, please.”

At the bottom of each victim’s column was written, ‘Attended University of Galway.’

“Our three victims went to same university?”

“They did. Davy, uncover the whole slide while I explain.”

Two more names appeared.

“Our three dead boys were Nicholas Sanders, nineteen, medical student at UCG. Jesse Broderick, twenty-one, history student at UCG, and Ross McCabe, also twenty-one, a maths student at the same university-”

Craig cut in. “Is the medical school on the same campus as the other’s departments? They aren’t always.”

“It is in the early years while they just attend lectures. Older medical students spend their time at the nearby hospital, but Nicholas was only a second year so he would have been on campus all the time.”

“Thanks. Go on, Andy.”

“OK, obviously this is all new information so we don’t yet know if the three victims knew each other, socialised together or what. But this does all seem confined for now, chief, which may make it easier to gain traction on CCTV, eye witnesses and so on. Aidan was looking into Jesse Broderick and I took Ross McCabe, so Aidan, can you say what you’ve found so far?”

As the DCI opened his mouth to speak, Craig held up a hand.

“Sorry, Aidan, but just before you do that, can someone tell me which of our victims was which, please. We know that Nicholas was the fair-haired victim; killed with an injection of Fentanyl and with weakest scent of roses on his hands post-mortem. Which of the others was the darker and which the paler boy?”

Davy obliged. “Ross McCabe was the dark boy, chief, and Jesse Broderick the pale one.”

“OK, thanks. Aidan, you were about to cover Jesse Broderick. He had the strongest scent of roses, which may mean that the fetishists spent most time with him, and he died by injection of Fentanyl too. He also apparently showed indications of past cocaine use. Both he and Sanders were sexually assaulted, but only Broderick was whipped. As was Ross McCabe, Andy. The differentiation in treatment may have been down to desire or some other reason.”

Liam interjected with, “Perhaps the dark boy, McCabe, fought back harder than the others, boss. He was the most muscular of the three. He hadn’t been raped, but he was whipped and suffered the nastiest death. That feels like punishment for resisting to me.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not sure we’ll ever know. OK, sorry I interrupted you, Aidan. Tell us about Jesse Broderick, please.”

“OK, like Nicholas Sanders, Jesse Broderick disappeared in the last week of February. Friday the twenty-fourth. He was twenty-one and studying history as we’ve heard. He came from a large family and fell smack in the middle of it.”

“Did he have younger brothers?”

“Two, but they’re safe, I checked. So, any idea that our kidnappers might have planned to take younger brothers as well fails.”

“Which could mean that Felix Sanders was a special order or a mistake, boss.”

“Or opportunistic. Continue, please, Aidan.”

“The Brodericks live on the coast on a fishing farm run by Jesse’s father. His mother owns a restaurant in the grounds specialising in-”

Ash’s quip of, “Fish?” brought a smirk.

“Yes, and all sorts of sea food. Jesse’s abduction happened at night, but the police investigation, which looks extensive, was hampered by the vagueness of witnesses. We do know that he was clubbing that night with two friends at some place called Forresters.”

“Near the university?”

“Not far. Apparently, it was a bit of a dive. Why do you ask its location, guv?”

“I was just wondering whether Jesse was spotted at Uni and followed there or just spotted at the club.”

“The fact that all three boys attended the same Uni points to the campus having importance surely.”

“Most likely. Go on.”

“OK, so Jesse and his friends entered Forresters at eleven. It didn’t close until three most nights, so that was standard. Jesse must have been abducted sometime after twelve-thirty because that’s the last time either of his friends remembers seeing him. But there’s a bit of a problem there-”

“Let me guess. They were drunk so their recall isn’t great.”

Aidan’s expression said that he’d hit the nail on the head.

“OK, so what was Jesse doing when they last saw him?”

“They’ll need to be re-interviewed, but it seems he was deep in discussion by the club’s exit with some man that neither of them knew. Tall, late twenties and unshaven. Both friends said he didn’t look like a student. Too old and too rough.”

“Were they concerned for Jesse?”

“No. They said that he was always talking to ‘dodgy people’, which now that we know he had a coke habit makes sense. He must have had a dealer, or maybe a few different ones around town that he bought from.”

Liam shook his head. “Or maybe unshaven guy was his abductor.”

Craig nodded. “One of them anyway. The one that approached Nicholas Sanders would have been younger.”

Aidan wasn’t convinced. “If he’d been an abductor, he would hardly have been chatting to Jesse so publicly, would he?”

“I’m not sure a midnight chat in a dark nightclub counts as public.”

The DCI shrugged. “I guess, but according to his mates there was no aggro that would suggest abduction. They were just standing by the door chatting normally. But they didn’t see Jesse again after that so I suppose we can’t rule it out.”

“OK, tell us about the missing person’s report on him.”

The DCI pulled a face. “He wasn’t reported missing for four days. His friends and family said he often went AWOL for short periods so no-one thought he might be in trouble until then.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Probably used to him lying somewhere stoned off his head.”

“Probably, although to be fair I did my share of going AWOL myself when I was a student and drugs had nothing to do with it.”

Craig chuckled. “They found you buried under a pile of beer cans.”

He’d shared a flat briefly with Aidan when they were both at law school, and while he wasn’t a neat freak himself the DCI’s level of untidiness had been breath-taking.

Aidan conceded the point good naturedly. “Fair enough, but I’m saying students, especially male students, often don’t know where their mates are. We don’t keep tabs on each other.”

“So, who did report Jesse missing?”

“His History Professor. Jesse was a good student despite his bad habits, so when he missed his second tutorial in a week the Prof raised the alarm and had his digs checked and his parents alerted. That’s when the Guards were called in.”

Liam sighed. “Four days, boss. Plenty of time for his trail to go cold.”

“Maybe. OK, Aidan, anything else on Jesse Broderick?”

“Only that he had a girlfriend who he was serious about and she’s so cut up about his disappearance that she’s been staying with his parents ever since.”

It was Craig’s turn to sigh. It was a reminder that until now their victims’ relatives had only been dealing with disappearances.

He’d often thought that was worse than death, the lack of closure would kill him, but he knew he wasn’t typical in his feelings and that for most families even the tiniest hope that they might see their loved one again gave them strength.

Now they were about to extinguish that hope by informing them that their sons were dead.

Liam read his mind. “We won’t be giving the death notifications, boss. The Guards will do that once we’ve confirmed the names and OK-ed it with the C.C.”

Craig was too ashamed to say it but the words brought him relief. He had always hated telling people that their loved ones weren’t coming home so he was grateful that it was some other officer’s onerous duty this time.

He turned quickly back to Aidan.

“Anything more?”

“Yes. Once Jesse was reported missing the Guards launched a big search, and half the county seems to have joined in. The Brodericks have lived in the area for generations so with all their cousins and friends… well, you can imagine. They searched houses, fields, the nearby forest, even dredged the rivers but nothing.”

“When did the searches end?”

“Not till a couple of weeks ago. After that the family tried to keep Jesse in the public eye by doing a TV appeal, like a Crimewatch type programme. It generated quite a few tips that the Guards are still following up.”

“There might be something there worth looking into.”

“That’s what I thought. Anyway, that’s as far as I’ve got on Jesse, guv.”

“That’s remarkable work in such a short time. Well done.” He turned back to his lead DCI. “Right, Andy, tell us about Ross McCabe.”

“Ross was twenty-one and a maths student who was due to graduate this June. He was an excellent student according to his tutor and expected to get first-class honours. He’d already had an offer to do a PhD.”

“You’ve spoken to his tutor already?”

“I have, but don’t worry, as far as he knows Ross is still just missing.”

“Good. Continue.”

“Ross was an only child.”

Liam groaned. “Oh, God, his poor parents.”

“He lost them in a car accident when he was sixteen, which may be some kind of blessing now. As far as I can see the only people left to mourn the boy are an aunt and uncle.”

“Who raised him from the age of sixteen?”

“He raised himself. The aunt and uncle offered him a home after the accident but he refused, preferring to live independently with their supervision. The Garda interview suggests, and his tutor implied this as well, that Ross was a bit of a genius but quite antisocial. His aunt said that he’d always been that way, so I wonder if he may have had slight autistic tendencies. He was also obsessive about physical fitness, which could explain why he was so well muscled compared to the other two lads.”

“Obsessiveness can be associated with autism.”

“As can genius. Anyway, that was Ross McCabe. Oh, and he didn’t have a girlfriend, he spent all his time in the gym or the library.”

“How did he disappear? And when?”

“It looks like he was the last one taken, chief. He was reported missing by his tutor on the third of March when he missed an important meeting, although on questioning none of his classmates had seen him around for a couple of days before that. The tutor said the meeting was with a visiting lecturer interested in Ross doing his doctorate in the States and that was why she’d raised the alarm. She was adamant he would never have deliberately missed that meeting; it was important to his future. But nobody could say exactly where he went missing from.”

“What did the Guards find on investigation?”

“His house was tidy, with milk and cheese there that didn’t go out of date till the ninth, and his laptop was last used on the second and as Ross was on it all the time his tutor said that was probably when he disappeared. She was adamant he would never have left it behind voluntarily. She also said Ross would have fought his abductors. He could handle himself and boxed.”

Liam shook his head. “The perps won’t have liked that. They probably considered him a troublemaker.”

And he’d been punished accordingly.

Craig considered the update. Ross McCabe had been the strongest of their three victims and yet he’d still been abducted and killed, so they were definitely looking for more than one perpetrator.

He repeated his thoughts aloud.

“This is a team of two or more abductors. It would have taken that to take the two Sanders boys at once, and to take Ross McCabe alone because he was strong. Also, to carry them into the cove. They may have used a gun to subdue them-”

“Not a knife, boss?”

“No. A knife requires getting close to do damage and McCabe might have overpowered them. They wouldn’t have risked that. I’m growing more convinced that they used guns to threaten their victims and perhaps drugs to knock them out.

“Where do you think they nabbed McCabe, boss?”

“Not at home. Nothing there was disturbed.”

Andy nodded. “I agree. But the problem is his home was the only place McCabe was ever truly alone. Everyone interviewed said that even though he preferred his own company, he was always either at the gym or library, both places full of people.”

Aidan nodded. “He liked being alone in a crowd. I get that.”

Feelings were fine but Craig wanted facts.

“Do you know his timings, Andy? Specifically what time he normally left the house, went to classes, the gym or library and home to bed?”

“I’ve nothing specific there. You’re thinking he was abducted going to or from somewhere?”

“Yes. When it was dark. Somewhere on his route when he would have been isolated.”

“OK. I’ll look into it. How do you want us to handle further enquiries generally, chief? There’s a bit more we can do here but eventually we’ll need to get onsite.”

Craig considered for a moment.

“Leave that with me. I agree that some of us will need to go to Galway, but I can’t have the whole team disappearing.”

He glanced at the clock. “Right, it’s getting late, so just one more thing. With Annette away and so much work to go around, Liam and I spoke to DCS White about lending us a sergeant for a week. He’s going to see if anyone’s game and if they are they’ll be at tomorrow morning’s briefing. I know you’ll make them welcome. OK, everyone work on until five and then go home.”

With that he headed for his office to do some quiet thinking. Just a second too late to avoid Nicky handing him papers to sign.

Chapter Six

Craig’s Home. Stranmillis, Belfast. Sunday, 5.45 a.m.

After so much tossing and turning that he’d given up trying to sleep, Craig had decamped to his study at three a.m. to think about their case. He was still there at dawn, watching the rising sun break slowly through the trees in his back garden. They were part of the reason that they’d bought the house; mature sycamores lined either side of the grassy rectangle and a row of beeches linked them along the fence. The sun was catching their copper leaves now, dappling them with changing patterns as its angle shifted, until soon they would stand in its full glare.

It was a restful sight that almost sent the detective back to sleep. Almost but not quite; the case-mice in his head were making too much noise for that.

All murder cases were messy in the early stages, and with three victims, seven if they counted the bodies in the south, that messiness was multiplied. Yesterday had been about discoveries: of past but possibly related victims, of their Antrim victims’ names, and small details about their abductions and eventual fates. But today had to be about outlining clear strands of enquiry and allocating names.

They couldn’t flail about hoping for coincidence and luck to aid them, it would take order and logic to find their perps, and experience had taught Craig that unless he introduced some of that right now, he could look up from the investigation in a week to find that they were still in the same place.

Casting a final, longing look at the beeches, he turned to the whiteboard that he’d had mounted on his study wall the day they’d moved in, in the faint hope that he might one day use it to list books to read, movies to see, places to travel and boats that he might one day hope to own, but in his realistic heart already knowing then, and preparing for it by installing a strong lock on the door to shield his son, that it was far more likely that words like ‘poisoning’, ‘stabbing’ and the names of the dead would cover it instead.

He pushed the disappointment from his mind and set about his task list, using everything they’d discussed the day before to write: Ryan - boats and moorings; Mary - guns; Aidan - SCCAU, sexual practices and Bishop Pankhurst; Andy - coves, all mapping and full details of abductions; Davy – sub-crimes and possible past mistakes; Ash - the dark marketplace and ways to crack it; Liam and himself – their perps and, oh yes, don’t forget any info from Des and Grace. Also - see John for more information on their victims’ deaths.

At six o’clock he stood back, his fingers covered in blue marker and the board covered in a great deal more, and after a moment’s further consideration added two points: Contact the Gardai and inform the C.C., then rearranged their order to informing the Chief Constable first.

Chief Constable Sean Flanagan was a tolerant man as far as bosses went, but hearing from his counterpart in the Republic that they were launching an all-island investigation before he’d heard it from his own officers might be an exercise in tolerance too far.

He needed to see Flanagan today to ‘seek permission’, a euphemism for, ‘We need to do this so I’m doing it but I just thought you’d like to know before I do. Sir.’ Calling it permission would make Flanagan feel better and cost him nothing but a little time.

Satisfied, and reminding himself to take a screenshot of the board before he left for work, Craig turned to look at his garden a last time, glad that they had one, two if you counted the bushes and flowerbeds that edged their cobbled parking area out front, but even more glad that he didn’t have to care for it, his father having discovered gardening in retirement and eager, yes, actually eager, to tend something beyond his own small patch of the world.

Fortified by nature to deal with the day ahead the detective headed for the shower, then with a kiss for his sleeping family he made the short drive through the still quiet streets of Belfast to his second home, arriving in what he had expected to be an empty squad-room to find two other people already present, one of them his PA.

“Good morning, Nicky, you’re in early. It’s barely seven.”

Her nod of reply carried an air of martyrdom. “I know. Ask me why.”

“OK. Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep because of all that awful stuff you discussed yesterday.”

Craig sighed regretfully. “Sorry. I wish you hadn’t had to hear it.”

“Me too. But I’m so thankful that I’m not the mother of one of those poor boys that I really want to help. So, give me something to do.” She arched a perfect eyebrow. “After I make you coffee of course.”

Chuckling, Craig passed her his phone. “The last photo on there is a task list from home, so if you could send it to everyone’s screens while I write it up on the board that would be great. Then, would you try Grace at a decent hour and get me the list that we produced yesterday. It was a description of the likely perp. Andy already has it but he mightn’t be in for a while.”

She nodded and headed for the kitchen, glad to feel useful in the face of a horror that made her want to lock her son in his childhood bedroom and never release him into the big bad world again.

Just as it seemed he was alone, Craig remembered that he wasn’t and that somebody else was in early too. Ryan.

He strolled across to the D.I.’s desk to say hello.

“You’re in very early.”

“Morning, chief. Yes, I thought I’d make a start on the boats and harbours. There are a lot so it’ll take time to narrow them down. I’ve calls out to all the experts, north and south.”

Craig was taken aback. “Will they be in the office yet?”

Ryan shook his head. “Doubtful, but I emailed them last night so today will be about chasing till I get answers. I want a list of possible boats by the end of the day.”

It sounded optimistic given that they lived on such a busy island, but Craig nodded anyway. He thought for a moment then spoke again.

“I wonder if any of them would have information on hull size and clearances?”

“As in, how deep the sea needs to be at a specific spot to prevent a boat running aground on the rocks?”

“Exactly. If we’re right and the deaths in Cork and Clare are down to the same perps as our three, then the clearance available in those coves should help narrow the motorboat models?”

Ryan tapped his desk thoughtfully, working through the suggestion. He may have grown up in a fishing community but he wasn’t an actual sailor like Craig, so the concepts weren’t quite as familiar.

After a moment he nodded. “OK, that makes sense. Hopefully they’ll keep info on that kind of thing. But, just a layman’s question here, don’t tides make a difference to whatever clearance is available?”

“They do. The higher the water level the more clearance a boat has from the sea floor and the more likely that’s when the bodies were left, for safety. Ask Andy to check the tidal times for the Cork and Clare coves. It may be that boats can’t land there at all when the tide is out, and that’s useful information. Knowing the time period our perps had for disposal might help us with their tracking. Feed those and the Antrim equivalents to all your experts and see what they say.”

He ended his instructions with a smile; it felt good to be focusing on something practical. The smile became a grin when Nicky arrived with refreshments and joined them in the feast.

Still feasting was how the rest of the team found them when they arrived at seven-thirty, obviously briefed by Liam to, “Get their asses in early.”

The signs of sleep were still writ large on their faces, in bleariness and drooping eyelids, and in Aidan’s case a large dollop of shaving foam on one cheek.

Nicky produced a pack of biscuits and set them on the front desk.

“Sugar hit to wake you up, and the percolator’s full so help yourselves.”

Then she grabbed Aidan by the arm, murmured, “Shaving foam” and rubbed his face with a hankie in the most maternal action that Craig thought he’d ever seen.

The DCI grunted, “Thanks” before sleepwalking towards the coffee. The only person who didn’t head for it was Liam, who was muttering grumpily.

Craig rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. You’re moaning that there’s no tea on offer? Did you never hear of a kettle, man? There’s one in the kitchen.”

“I suppose... But it feels like there’s discrimination against tea drinkers around here.”

Only when Nicky presented him with a pot all to himself did the muttering grudgingly stop.

“Happy now, misery guts?”

When, “Hmm” was all she got in response she gave up and moved on.

“I take it you asked everyone to be in this early, Liam?”

“Aye well, it’s a twisty case so I thought we’d better, boss.”

Craig beckoned him into his office, “Especially as we need to decide who’s going to Galway.”

“Not us?”

“I’ve been thinking about that and I’m not sure it’s a good idea. This case could derail if we don’t keep a tight grip on it and the best place to do that from is here.”

Liam took a seat and swung his feet up on the desk, answering Craig’s wry look with, “I’m tired.”

After another mouthful of tea, he responded on the Galway point. “OK, so if we don’t go down, who does?”

“Andy’s been working on our victims’ abductions and the earlier disposal coves in Cork and Clare, so it would make sense if he did. But we’ll need to lay the groundwork with the Guards before he arrives, and before that we’ll need to brief Flanagan. He won’t like hearing about a possible all-island killer from his counterpart down south.”

Liam’s eyes widened. “An honest to God cross-border serial killer! We’ve never had one of those before, have we?”

Craig thought for a moment. “We’ve had plenty in the north, and I’m sure they’ve had a few down south, but serials covering the whole island… I think you could be right. This might be a first. That’s why we need to be sensitive. If those deaths in Cork and Clare-”

“And don’t forget we might be missing a pair.”

“Indeed. But if they do turn out to be linked with our Antrim cases and we march across the border saying ‘Relax, boys. The cavalry’s here’ the Guards will hand us our asses. This will require diplomacy.”

“Well, Andy’s your man there. The mild-mannered Clark Kent of the murder squad.”

The thought of the DCI changing clothes in a phonebooth made them both laugh.

“OK, so who do we send with him, Liam? Bearing in mind that we’ll be stretched.”

The deputy considered for a moment, rubbing his chin as he did so and finding a patch of stubble that he’d missed in that morning’s sleep haze. Luckily, his stubble was so fair that no-one would notice it but him.

“We could relieve Mary of the gun stuff and send her down.”

“Yes, we could. Good idea. But Mary’s too junior to act independently, so Andy will need someone more senior with him as well.”

“How about Ryan?”

“No, he’s working the harbour and boat stuff. Although… I suppose he could join Andy tomorrow.”

“I suppose. Although it would leave us short-staffed.”

Craig tutted irritably. “Why did you suggest him then?”

The DCS dropped his feet to the floor with a bang. “Don’t bite my head off!”

“I didn’t bite your head off! Trust me, you’d know if I’d bitten your head off.”

Suddenly the door opened and Nicky appeared. “What was that bang?”

“I shot Liam for being annoying.”

The secretary’s retort was a gem. “On that basis he should have been dead years ago.”

Ignoring his deputy’s indignation, Craig gave her a round of applause.

“Excellent. While you’re here, Nicky, could you see if the C.C. has some time for us this morning, please. Ten minutes should do it.”

She pursed her lips. “Donna won’t like it. She only keeps thirty minutes free each day for emergencies.”

Donna Scott was the Chief Constable’s PA and as far as gatekeepers went, she was tougher than Cerberus at the entrance to the Underworld.

“Tell her this is an emergency. No actually, don’t tell her that. Tell her… tell her-”

Liam came to the rescue. “Tell her that two hunky detectives will love her forever if she fits us in.”

“Hunky? You? Now you’ve no hope.”

She disappeared grinning like the Cheshire Cat and Liam returned to his huff.

“Ryan would be the best help for Andy, that’s why I suggested him, boss. And he copes with Mary better than the rest.”

Craig relented slightly. “OK, how’s this? Andy and Mary go down and Ryan joins them after he’s completed his work on the harbours. But only if we get a sergeant from Trafficking.”

“You think Andy won’t send one?”

“I think that his sergeant may not want to come. Murder isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, Liam. It’s rough stuff and we tend to forget that.”

The DCS shook his head. “Nah. Anyone who can cope with human trafficking will find our perps light relief. A tenner says we have a sergeant by nine o’clock.”

Hoping that it was a bet he would lose, Craig pulled ten pounds from his wallet and slapped it on the desk.

“You’re on.”

He stared hard at his deputy until he did the same thing. He’d had bets with Liam before where his winnings had never materialised, so this time was going to be different. That was if he won, of course.

After producing a tenner so grudgingly that he’d probably had teeth pulled more easily, Liam continued his train of thought.

“OK, so when this sergeant arrives, they can pick up the slack on the boats and guns and Ryan can head south.”

“No, they can take the guns and we’ll follow the boats. That’s too much for someone new.”

“They need to know about more than just guns, boss.”

“We’ll see.”

Glancing at the clock he rose to his feet. “Anyway, this is all hypothetical until we get Flanagan’s OK and I speak to the Garda Commissioner. Right, let’s get out there and see what’s what.”

As he opened his office door, his hopes soared that Andy White had come through, and an hour earlier than agreed.

Standing beside his PA’s desk, chatting and waving her arms around in an animated way, was a petite, thirty-something woman whose crisp navy suit and neatly bobbed blonde hair marked her out as a professional of some sort, hopefully police, and whose broad, dimpled smile said that she was actually happy to be there.

Nicky made the introductions.

“Assistant Chief Constable Craig, this is Sergeant Gabriella Sutton, here from Trafficking to help us out for a while.”

The sergeant added quickly, in a soft country accent, “Also here to learn, and happy to do so, sir” then her hand shot out like a bolt to shake his.

Although Nicky smirked slightly at her eagerness, Craig could tell that she already liked the sergeant.

The PA continued the introductions.

“And this is Detective Chief Superintendent Cullen, the ACC’s deputy.”

Sutton turned to shake Liam’s hand too and stared up at him. “You’re very tall.” She looked back at Craig. “So are you, sir. Is this a requirement in Murder? If so, I’m falling very short.”

The comment made the men laugh and when the sergeant joined in, suddenly realising what she’d said, Craig decided that working with Gabriella Sutton might be fun.

“Thank you for joining us, Sergeant Sutton. You’ve found us having a busy week, so Liam, if you can find Gabriella a free desk, we’ll start. I’ll ask you to introduce yourself to the group before we start the briefing.”

As Liam walked her to the desk behind Annette’s, he said, “You’re from Fermanagh?”

“Yes! How did you guess?”

Craig overheard and called out, “He’s the King of Ireland” waiting for the others to take their seats before he kicked off.

“Right. Thank you all for coming in early. Just a quick round-up then I’ll leave you to your work. But first, we have a new officer with us, seconded from Trafficking to help us on this case. Sergeant Sutton, would you like to introduce yourself?”

To his surprise she sprang to her feet and waved. “I’m Gabriella Sutton, one of three sergeants in Trafficking. Before that I was in Drugs and before that Robbery for three years. I’m here to learn as well as to help. And call me Gabby, please.”

She finished with a grin that made most people smile, even Aidan the squad cynic.

Mary however regarded the new arrival with squinting suspicion; she didn’t trust cheerful people. In her opinion they had a screw loose. Everyone sensible knew that the world was a pit of despair.

As Gabriella retook her seat, Craig turned to his PA.

“Sorry, Nick, I didn’t get time to write that list on the board, so would you put it onscreen.”

As the bullet points from his home whiteboard appeared, Craig leant against a desk and folded his arms.

“OK, these are the task allocations that we agreed to yesterday, and you all know what to do in your area.” He turned to his inspector. “Ryan, I’d like you to brief Gabriella…”

He couldn’t bring himself to shorten her beautiful name to Gabby.

“…on the case and particularly on what you’re doing as regards boats and harbours, please.”

“Mary, you’ll brief Gabriella on guns after that.”

He turned face-front again.

“Liam and I will be going to see the Chief Constable today-”

Nicky volunteered. “At ten.”

“Thanks. Until we’ve had that meeting, you’re all free to contact local Garda Stations for information but don’t contact the Commissioner’s office, please. Chief Constable Flanagan will either want to do that himself or task me. Diplomacy is something we need to take into account when working cross-border and, as Liam pointed out to me earlier, this may be the first truly all-island serial killer case so there could be sensitivities as to why it hasn’t yet been solved. Am I clear?”

There was a series of resigned nods.

“OK, good. Now, can everyone look at this list and tell me if I’ve missed anything, please. I haven’t put all the details we discussed yesterday because there wasn’t room, but are the basic headings correct?”

Hurried scanning was followed by nods.

“OK, good. Nicky, would you mind copying that to our board at some point today? It’s already on your pads.”

He moved away from his perch. “Now, Andy, Mary, and Ryan, join us in my office. Gabriella, someone will be with you shortly. The rest of you, on you go.”

Five minutes later Andy and Mary knew they would be heading to Galway as soon as Sean Flanagan gave the OK, followed later by Ryan.

“There will be a lot to look for when you reach Galway, which is why it will take three of you. If you don’t have your go-bags here go home now and collect them, please. Keep working on your tasks until you leave for Galway, then Gabriella will take over on guns, boats, and harbours, with Liam and myself on overview. Is that all clear?”

Mary responded first. “Yes, but I have a question. Will that sergeant be joining the squad permanently?”

The acidity of her tone made Craig wince.

“I doubt it, but we would be fortunate if she did.” He leaned towards her pointedly. “It’s extremely kind of Gabriella to help us out so I expect everyone to make her feel welcome and work with her. Is that understood, Mary?”

The non-committal grunt that he received in response made Liam roll his eyes, but knowing there was nothing more to be gained by labouring the point, Craig merely said, “Back to work, please.”

He waited for the door to close then slumped down in his chair.

“That girl… honestly, at times like this I wish I was on a desert island, Liam. Mary can’t possibly have something against Gabriella already, she’s only met the woman!”

The DCS shrugged.

“Ach, don’t burn brain cells trying to work Mary out, boss, it’ll only give you a headache. Have you forgotten what it was like when she first arrived? Nightmare on Pilot Street, Part One.”

Craig conceded the point. “I had forgotten actually, because she’s mellowed. But that could be because she knows us now. Perhaps she just doesn’t like change. Some people don’t.” He rose laboriously to his feet. “Either way, I need a bloody holiday, and you definitely deserve one.”

“I have some study leave coming for my exam.”

“That’s hardly a vacation. When does it start anyway?”

“Wednesday week, so hopefully we’ll have wrapped the case by then.”

“God, I hope so.” He opened the door. “OK, let’s pay another visit to the labs. Hold the lift for me, will you, Liam, I just need a quick word with Nicky.”

That quick word was an instruction for the PA to intervene if she saw Mary even thinking about giving their new sergeant a hard time.

****

The SCCAU (SCA). The Thirteenth Floor.

Ash gazed curiously around the unfamiliar space, thinking how big it was compared to their squad-room until Aidan read his mind and explained.

“It’s the same size, mate, just without the partitions and big lift lobby. Even the kitchen up here is open-plan. Security.”

The junior analyst looked at him questioningly. “Security for what?”

“The info and images viewed here can ruin lives, and I don’t mean just perps’ lives. They lost a good officer here just last year because he fell into a rabbit hole in a DW porn group and got a bit too interested in what he found.”

Ash’s eyes widened in alarm. “I won’t do that! I mean, I wouldn’t.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Just as Aidan was turning towards Marlene Porteon’s office, the analyst added something that made him turn back.

“I mean, if I want to surf the DW, I’ll do it at home on my own time.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Ash, and you’d better not repeat it. There’s a very low perve tolerance on this floor. OK, come on. I’ll introduce you to DCS Porteon and see if she can help you get what you need. And for God’s sake don’t forget what I told you outside.”

Don’t mention Craig; not by name, rank or even an appellation like ‘the boss’.

Marlene Porteon was perfectly aware that the young man that she’d attended police college with was now an older man who had recently become her boss, but she sure as hell didn’t want to be reminded of the fact. If they did remind her then cooperation on their case might die a very painful death. Yes, it was petty of her, but it was also very human.

Only slightly chastised by the warnings that he’d received, the analyst shuffled along in Aidan’s wake, growing increasingly shocked by the wear and tear on the, mostly young, faces that they passed. Some of the things he’d seen in Murder had been horrific, but nothing that would have turned a young person into an old one; sex crimes clearly raised the bar on horror more than just a notch.

His thoughts were interrupted by Aidan knocking on the only door in the unit, and even that was transparent, and entering the glass booth that served as Porteon’s office. He greeted the DCS, or Darling Marlene as Liam called her, cheerfully, and she responded in the same way.

Ash was surprised. Every time he’d seen her before, albeit only across their squad-room, she’d looked like a bear with a migraine. But then she and Craig had always been arguing.

Craig rarely had dust-ups with anyone but their relationship obviously set him, and her, on edge.

Porteon motioned the men to sit.

“DCI Hughes tells me you’re quite the whiz with computers, Mister Rahman.”

Ash wasn’t sure how to respond. If he said yes or nodded it might seem arrogant and annoy her, but if he appeared falsely modest then that might irritate her as well.

He opted for, “I know my way around them, Ma’am” and saw her wince.

“Chief or boss, please. I’m saving Ma’am for my eighth decade. Right. To work. I understand you need to get on to the Dark Web, specifically into specialist sex groups?”

“Not just sex groups, chief, but groups that specialise in fetishes, torture, abduction and murder as well.” He gestured at Aidan. “I’m not sure how much DCI Hughes has told you, but we have a theory that someone may be kidnapping young men, perhaps to order, and then selling the right to abuse them or watch that abuse.”

Aidan picked up.

“It’s a grim picture. The abuse includes physical violence, sodomy in some cases, paralysis by severance of the spinal cord and finally murder by injection. In addition, there seem to be fetishes at work, hand and foot, and perhaps separately a perfume fetish, in this case a rose scent. We don’t believe all that can be the work of just our killers, but that they’ve monetised the abuse and murder of the men.”

Ash came back in. “Some people are doing but more people are viewing on the DW, possibly through password protected pay-per-view.”

Porteon’s jaw had fallen on the word ‘paralysis’ and only now returned to its normal position. Even so, for a moment she seemed incapable of speech. When Aidan nodded in solidarity, she realised that his team downstairs had been similarly stunned.

“Trust me, it took me hours to get my head around all this, chief, and it’s still just theory. But with seven deaths and counting around the island, it’s one that we need to rule in or out fast.”

The DCS nodded briskly and sat forward, locking her hands together on her desk in what looked to Ash an attempt at shock control.

“So… presumably you’ll want to use our databases to search for offenders that might fit, Aidan?”

“Yes. I also want to research a children’s camp that closed in twenty-thirteen and the man who ran it, but that’s more to rule him out.”

“You could have done that downstairs or in Vice.”

“I might later, but I wanted to introduce you to Ash.”

“Fine. Tell me what you know about your offenders.”

“There are probably two, although that number could rise. Males in their late teens or twenties, who live somewhere on the coast, judging by where they leave the bodies, and possibly also work on the sea. They probably hail from the west coast of Ireland, although there may be a secondary lair inland where the abuse is carried out and live streamed.”

“And you believe others may travel to engage in the abuse?”

“Yes. There are too many different traits at play here even for two perps, and some of the practices conflict with others in a way that could break a partnership.”

“Specifically?”

“The level of sadism and the more passive nature of fetishism. They don’t sit easily together.”

Porteon nodded briskly. “I agree.” She turned back to Ash. “It’s your belief as well that outside players are travelling to abuse?”

“A hard core, yes, probably from GB, with others perhaps paying our perps to perform acts as their proxies. Contact is established by responding to adverts. Others, also responding to adverts, will just be watching. It’s a complex service model but it works in sports and gambling.”

The SCA boss nodded slowly, the expression on her face saying that they’d brought her something new. Not that she would admit it of course.

“OK then. Aidan, you should speak to Sarah. She’s by the window nearest the kitchen. Long dark hair. Sarah’s done several courses on serial killers, including a recent one at Quantico. Ash, our Dark Web expert is Constable Lily Granger. I’ll introduce you and you can outline exactly what you need.”

As the murder team members retired to their respective corners it was with the same thought on their minds; they were working on longshots. But as longshots were all that were available, they had better make them work.

****

The Labs. 8.50 a.m.

Craig wished they could have seen Sean Flanagan immediately, instead of having it hanging over their heads. It was like knowing that you had a dental appointment ‘later’; it could loom and ruin your whole day.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Sean Flanagan, because he did, as far as you could like someone who held your career in their hands. And it wasn’t as if Flanagan hated him and made his life hell; he didn’t, although he did give him a far harder time than some of his peers seemed to believe.

He’d heard enough quips about him being ‘Flanagan’s blue-eyed boy’ to know that they thought the C.C. favoured him, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Like most senior officers, Flanagan only valued people who did their jobs and brought him results that reflected well on the force in general and him in particular, and failing to produce the goods even once could mean that even the most senior subordinate would get a metaphorical boot up their ass.

But that wasn’t why Craig had this ‘looming’ feeling; that came from Flanagan being an authority figure. In common, he was sure, with the rest of the world, appointments with bosses, dentists, bank managers, government officials and their ilk still made him feel like he was being called to see the headmaster at school; something that had been an all too frequent occurrence in his impulsive youth.

The memory must have been written on his face when they entered John Winter’s office because his childhood friend called it in one.

“You look like you’ve been called to see the headmaster, Marc! What’s up?”

Craig laughed so hard that it was left to Liam to explain the accuracy of the words, eliciting a sympathetic nod and an offer of coffee.

“It’s strange how childhood experiences traumatise you, isn’t it? We react the same way even as adults.”

Liam, who was once again miffed that he had to make his own tea, had no sympathy with the pair.

“Ach, you two had it easy! Try getting called to see the Head Christian Brother knowing that he had a leather strap in his drawer.”

Craig chuckled. “Let’s just agree that we should all get therapy and do what we came to do. John, you’ve PM-ed all three boys now so anything new?”

“Indeed. I’ll pull up the file.”

He read aloud. “Grace was right about the surface water found on the victims. Just a tiny amount of it was sea water, and only on the front of the bodies so most likely spray. The bulk was rain water. I checked and it drizzled slightly in Antrim from six to six-thirty on Friday morning, and the bodies must have been in the cove then, so-”

Craig raised a hand to pause him. “Drizzle doesn’t sound enough. Liam, find out if it rained elsewhere in Ireland overnight, please.”

“You’re thinking the Vics might’ve got soaked with rain before or during their journey? But if it had happened too far away from the cove the boys might’ve dried out before they’d got there, boss. It wouldn’t have taken long for that to happen. Maybe the rain they got in the cove was enough and they stayed wet because the cove was sheltered from any sun.”

Craig nodded. “You’re right, of course. And if their origin site had been close enough for them to stay damp that wouldn’t fit with our west coast theory. OK, cancel that request. Sorry, John, I interrupted you. Carry on.”

The pathologist sniffed. “If you hadn’t interrupted, I could have saved you a few words. Judging by when rigor eased after we transported them here, I’d put time of death between three and five a.m. on Friday morning.”

“When the tide was high and it was pitch dark. It fits.”

Liam. “How long would it have taken to sail from the west coast round to Antrim, boss?”

“It depends where on the west coast and the type of boat. A long time anyway.”

“A long time wouldn’t fit with the Doc’s time of death if they were killed on land.”

Craig realised immediately what it meant. “They were killed en route!”

John nodded smugly. “I was just about to say that.”

Craig nodded slowly.

“And killing them on the large boat means they were newly dead when they were transported to the cove in the motorboat at high tide.”

“Which was around four a.m. on that stretch of coast.”

Craig tapped the desk thoughtfully.

“Liam, remind Ryan about allowing for the weight of five adult men when he looks at clearances. The boat would have been sitting far lower in the water when it entered the cove than when it left.”

John decided it was time to put a spoke in his friend’s nautical wheel.

“Haven’t you forgotten something, Marc?”

Craig racked his brains for a moment. “No… no, I don’t think so.”

“I do. I spoke to Nicky earlier and she mentioned something about the internet playing some part in the killings. She didn’t explain how.”

“Yes. So?”

“What sort of an internet connection works on a boat at sea? If that’s where those boys met their ends.”

Craig was startled, both by the idea and the fact that it hadn’t occurred to him.

Liam shook his head glumly.

“Damn it, boss, he’s right. The perps would have lost big money if their connection had gone down, so why risk it?”

Craig didn’t respond immediately, instead gazing into space in a way that said he was picturing the scene. When he spoke again it was to describe it.

“Let’s say that everything before the final acts of injection and disposal involved our perpetrators, but may also have involved others who’d paid for the privilege.”

John’s eyes widened in horror. “What? Who?”

“I’ll explain another time. Tonight, over a pint?”

A nod gave him permission to move on.

“I believe those things took place on land and were streamed on the Dark Web for payment. But the final acts of murder by injection the perpetrators may have kept only for themselves. And although I do believe they would have carried equipment on the boat suitable for live streaming, if that had failed due to rough seas or atmospheric interference, I don’t believe they would have considered it a huge loss.”

Liam gave a derisive snort. “Yeh, it’s not like the voyeurs could have sued them for a refund, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. So, they killed the victims on the large boat, anchored it a short distance off the coast or a third man remained on board to steady it, lowered a motorboat carrying the bodies and steered it into the cove, sure that the clearance there would be enough because it was high tide and that they wouldn’t be witnessed, both because it was dark and because they’d deliberately chosen cliff coves that weren’t overlooked. They unloaded the bodies-”

He broke off, something occurring to him. “Is it easier to transport a body in or out of rigor, John?”

The pathologist was taken aback by the question; it hadn’t exactly been on his final exams.

Liam urged him on.

“Just say whatever pops into your head, Doc.”

John shot him a disgusted look. “I will not indeed. You know perfectly well which state would have been easier, Marc, but that doesn’t guarantee it was the one they chose.”

Craig nodded. “Full rigor would have been best, but that takes twelve hours and wouldn’t have worked logistically. They had to work with what they had.” He turned to his deputy. “What time was the coastguard sighting, Liam?”

“They called it in at ten in the morning.”

“But they didn’t report seeing a yacht or trawler around, never mind a motorboat, I assume?”

“None that were mentioned by the Antrim cops, but I’ll check with them direct.”

“Don’t bother. Our killers would have been long gone by ten. Another thing, Liam, when the coastguard station alerted the local cops, did the cops go down to the cove, or just look over the cliff? The boys were clearly dead so they mightn’t have made the trip, just called us.”

“I’ll check that as well.”

“OK. So, then we were called in and arrived around two...”

Craig nodded to himself.

“We need to check for visual sightings of trawlers and yachts on Thursday night and Friday morning.”

“Andy and Davy might know about that, boss, ’cos they’ll have been checking the satellites, currents and whatnot.”

“Whatnot being other boats in the shipping lanes?”

“Aye. Say for instance the perps came out of some harbour in Cork, first there might have been local fishing traffic plus the ferries heading for Europe from Rosslare. Then, if they’d gone up the east coast through the Irish Sea, they’d have been looking at heavy shipping to and from Dublin, Belfast, Larne, not to-”

John interrupted. “But would they have gone that route, Liam? If they’re experienced fishermen or sailors then they would have known those lanes were patrolled by both Irish and British vessels. To avoid detection, surely sailing west and north would have been their best bet?”

“It might’ve been, Doc, but there’d still have been the Irish coastguard and naval patrols to contend with, and as soon as they’d passed Donegal, British patrols would have replaced the Irish along the north coast.” He turned to Craig. “These boys must really know Ireland’s waters, boss. There’s no other way they could have stayed under the radar.”

“I agree. OK, Liam, ask Andy, or give it to Davy and Gabriella if he’s in the south, to check everything that we’ve just mentioned. Even if our perps switched off their transponder to avoid tracking, they might still have been visible from the sky. Check Army and air-sea rescue helicopters as well. Helicopters are often up at night.”

The DCS rolled his eyes. “Don’t I bloody know it. The noise of their rotors is shocking sometimes. Keeps me awake.”

“Not half as much as when we were kids. The helicopters were up almost every night during The Troubles.”

“It’s a wonder we aren’t all basket cases.”

“Or we are and just don’t realise it. OK, good.” Craig rubbed his hands together briskly. “What else?”

John raised a finger. “You came here for the health side, so would you like it?”

The detective chuckled. “Sorry, John, it’s just that when an idea hits, I need to follow it before I forget. Carry on.”

“There are a few things. The thickening of the boys’ soles first. That would have taken between one and two months to happen, the lower end if they were walking on rough terrain the whole time. That fits with the ages of their wounds, but does it fit your findings?”

“It does, Doc. The Antrim victims are confirmed taken in late February and March.”

“OK, good. When a sole reaches a certain thickness, it doesn’t thicken much more, just exfoliates on the terrain. If I said that the dark-haired boy was taken most recently, would that work with what you’ve found?”

“It would. He was abducted last. But only by a week.”

“Still, his feet were the least calloused. OK, what else? Ah yes, the DNA found under the fair-haired boy’s fingernails came from skin, so I suspect he clawed one of his captors.”

“Captors or invited guests.”

When the pathologist frowned questioningly, Craig just shook his head.

“Over our pint.”

“Fine. Anyway, Des has no hits on that yet, but that was expected because we don’t DNA test everyone and we don’t keep samples when we do.”

Seeing Liam about to climb on his ‘Universal DNA Database’ hobbyhorse, Craig shook his head.

“We don’t have time, Liam. Go on, John.”

“I believe Grace found some debris in the sheeting, although I don’t know how much was useful.”

Craig’s immediate instinct was to race up to the third floor and see what she had, but it was yet another thing that they didn’t have the time to pursue. Sean Flanagan loomed.

“Liam, ask Davy to keep on top of everything with Grace and Des, please.”

He glanced at the clock. Twenty-past-nine. They would have to run soon.

“Anything more, John?”

“Yes, the pale boy had a long-term cocaine habit, I’d say probably since school. His nasal septum was completely shot. The other two boys were clean of everything; no toxins or routine medications. And there was no alcohol or nicotine present in any of the three.”

Liam sighed heavily. “Youngsters nowadays don’t drink or smoke and most of them won’t eat meat, yet they still shove shit up their noses. I’ll never understand that.”

“Nor me. In my hierarchy of evil, drugs were always at the top. But we’re a different generation. Who knows what goes through kids’ minds nowadays.”

“Nothing, that’s what. They’ve pumped in so much collagen that they can’t think.”

Craig waved them down. “OK, you grumpy old men, let’s stick to the subject. We need to leave in five minutes. John?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. OK, the spinal cords were severed very slickly in a way that suggests this killer had done it before, if not to a person, then to an animal. I checked it out and it’s a technique sometimes used by hunters on large animals in Scandinavia and the US, so your killers may have read about it online. I would say follow it up but you could be wasting your time.”

“We won’t spend much time on it, thanks. What about the injections, John? Des mentioned Fentanyl.”

The pathologist pulled a face. “Yes. It’s a heavy-duty opioid that needs only tiny doses to kill. Normally it’s prescribed in hospital but there is a street trade here now, unfortunately, although still less than in other countries. And of course, all that rubbish is available on the Dark Web.”

“And the third boy got Carbolic Acid?”

John sighed heavily. “Yes, the dark-haired boy…”

“His name was Ross McCabe.”

“You ID-ed them?”

“Grace did.”

“Well, Mister McCabe had a much more painful end, sadly. Carbolic Acid is an unusual killing method. The last person I heard of using it sadistically was a Nazi doctor.”

Liam gave a low whistle. “McCabe must’ve really pissed them off to earn that end, boss.”

“Or cost them money. He was the only one not sexually abused, probably because he resisted, and that might have made his captors mad. Was there any sign that he fought them, John?”

The pathologist nodded. “Yes, actually. On his knuckles. I noticed a purple discolouration on them at the scene, but his hands were frozen so I put it down to that. But when I did the PM, I dissected the left and found the small skin vessels had burst. That’s common in bare knuckle fighters, so…”

Liam nodded admiringly. “He gave them a run for their money. Good lad.”

Craig fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again it was to draw a scene.

“John, you won’t know the details yet, but we’re working on a theory involving multiple abusers. Both invited and a wider spectator audience. All paying.”

The medic’s grey eyes widened.

“That’s the theory we’re following anyway.”

“Which is why they needed to broadcast from the boat.”

“Perhaps-”

Liam cut in. “I’ve just thought, boss. If the boys hadn’t been paralysed before they’d sailed, they might have jumped ship and taken their chances in the sea.”

The lost possibility made Craig profoundly sad.

He shook it off and continued his stream of thought.

“The point is, if some bastard had paid a lot of money and travelled to abuse McCabe and he’d fought them off-”

“Not to mention disappointing a wider paying audience of perves, boss.”

“Those too. If that is what happened it might have angered the killers badly enough to give him a cruel death.”

Liam frowned, but not at what Craig had just said.

“I’ve a question, Doc. McCabe’s knuckles say he hammered the crap out of someone, so mightn’t there be DNA on them?”

John’s eyebrows rose; then so did he and raced out of the office. The detectives knew where he was going and followed at a slower pace, entering Dissection Room One to find him dabbing at Ross McCabe’s hands with a swab.

As he placed it in its receptacle, Craig pressed him to take a guess.

“Odds of finding unknown DNA?”

“Normally, I would say zero after transport and a PM, but Grace bagged the hands very carefully at the scene and I always handle hands and feet cautiously, only unbagging them for as long as necessary.” He indicated the body. “I dissected his left knuckles as I mentioned, and also took samples to check for oils, but as luck would have it his right hand hasn’t been out of the bag other than to do nail scrapings so…” he brandished the swab in the air, “let’s hope we’re in luck and there’s still some trace of whoever he punched.” He made for the door. “I’ll take it up to Des now and let you know if we get a hit.”

Craig wasn’t holding his breath.

“Before you go, John, is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Yes. None of the boys had major fractures, I X-Rayed them from head to toe. But there were some small breaks.”

“Where?”

“They’d all had ribs broken. Healing shows that happened at different times, with the oldest break six weeks ago and the latest ones only days. Also, the fair-haired boy had a crack in his left cheekbone-”

“Probably a punch from someone right-handed.”

“Probably. In any case, that happened around a month ago. And, the dark boy had a fractured fifth metacarpal in his left hand.”

Liam nodded. “That’s a boxer’s fracture, boss. The odds of finding DNA just went up.”

“Hopefully.”

“My other findings were that none of them had eaten for forty-eight hours before death, but there were no signs of poor nutrition overall so they must have been fed until two days before they died.”

Craig sighed. “At least they weren’t starved for months.”

Liam shook his head. “I doubt it was out of kindness. The bastards just wanted them healthy looking enough to sell.”

“Was that the case, John? Were the boys presentable? I mean washed, their teeth brushed and so on?”

“They were, and well spotted, Liam. They’d all bathed recently, within a day of death I’d say. Before you ask, I found nothing useful on the shampoo or soap used, but that brings me to my next point. The rose scented oil used to massage their hands.”

Craig interrupted. “You said oil before. How can you be sure that it wasn’t a lotion?”

“Because Des said it was an oil thirty-minutes ago. Only found on the hands. He also said that once he has its exact composition, he’ll check with the FBI’s perfume register for a name. Oils can be expensive, so that might narrow down suppliers?”

“It might. I’ll get Davy on it.” Craig turned for the door. “Right, we have a Chief Constable to bother, but let me know the minute that you find anything new.”

And that was exactly what he told Sean Flanagan would be happening when they met twenty minutes later, after displaying images from their horrific crime scene and outlining their boat and internet theories as a lead-up to the real reason that they’d come.

“There are three sets of parents who still believe their sons are missing, sir, and we can give them closure. But in order to catch their killers, we’ll really need to work this case with the Guards.”

Flanagan rested back in his swivel chair, making it bounce slightly. He seemed not to notice, or perhaps the motion soothed him like the rocking of a boat always did Craig because his next words came in a mellower tone than expected.

“So, you gentlemen believe we’re looking for a serial killer of young men, who so far has tortured and murdered seven and abandoned their bodies in cliff coves around the island.”

No response was required, so the detectives just listened as he went on.

“But that number is still a theory: a) because you don’t yet have the details of the earlier deaths. They may turn out to have entirely different methodologies with only their final resting places similar to your case; and, b) because you believe there may in fact be two more victims lying undiscovered, their murders carried out, according to your calculations in the month of… when was it again, Craig?”

“February, sir.”

“Ah yes, February.”

He paused, leaning forward on his desk, and lifting a small paperknife wittily inscribed ‘NOT for stabbing junior officers’; most probably a gift from his astute wife, who Craig had met once and really liked.

After twirling the knife on its tip for a moment, Flanagan stared at them and said, “Refute?”

Craig shook his head.

“I can’t disagree with any of that yet, sir, but we’re expecting the files on the Cork and Clare deaths later this morning so we’ll know more then. We’re also searching for our possible February victims using missing persons north and south, helicopter flybys and satellite imagery.”

The Chief Constable nodded to himself for a moment before speaking again.

“When you’ve compared the files and checked the whole coast, north and south, for new bodies, then and only then can you pay a visit to the Guards.”

“Understood. And the three victims from Antrim, sir? They’re all from County Galway, so what should we do about informing their families?”

“Let me have their details and I’ll discuss that with the Garda Commissioner. I’ll feel him out about joint work as well, and get back to you by the end of the day. How does that sound?”

Not ideal, but Sean Flanagan was a cautious man so it was as much as they could have expected.

“Fine, sir. I’ll give you an update this afternoon.”

Dreams of having their all-island serial theory validated instantly had proved just that. But they would get there, he was sure of it.

As they said their goodbyes and turned for the door, Flanagan spoke again.

“Officer Cullen.”

Liam pulled a face that morphed into a broad smile as he turned back.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re taking your promotion board in a few weeks, aren’t you?”

The deputy’s heart sank. Was he about to hear that Flanagan was overseeing it?

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, good luck. I don’t know who’s on the panel yet, but I have absolutely no doubt you’ll be fine.”

Liam was startled by the vote of confidence, so Craig jumped in before he could make some unfortunate excited utterance that he couldn’t take back.

“That’s what I keep telling him. Goodbye, sir.”

He opened the door quickly and shoved his stunned deputy through the opening, nearly landing him on Donna’s ample lap.

“Be careful, DCS Cullen! You almost spilled my tea.”

Another quick shove put Liam out on the landing, but Craig held off on a third push in case it sent him careering head first down the stairs.

Seeing that his deputy was still speechless, Craig decided to hold the conversation that he knew was coming with himself.

“What do you think that meant, boss? The ‘I have absolutely no doubt you’ll be fine’ bit. Eh?”

“I can’t be sure, Liam, but it sounded hopeful. Almost like, as long as you don’t make any massive cock-ups in your interview you should get through.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do. Flanagan’s clearly in your corner.”

They reached the ground floor without the deputy uttering a word, but his expression had grown less shocked and more sceptical on the descent and by the time they reached the carpark Liam was once again speaking for himself.

“Aye, very funny, boss.”

Craig shrugged. “I just thought I’d get the conversation over and save myself the earache of you rambling all the way back to the office. And by the way, you’re welcome. For me getting you out of there before you said, “Fuck me!” I mean. And for interpreting Flanagan’s words for you.”

Liam beeped the car doors open and gestured rudely for him to get in.

“You can’t know that’s what he meant.”

“I’m pretty sure I can, you know, because it’s what I would say to an officer that I respected before a big exam. An officer that, short of him dropping his trousers in the middle of the interview room, was likely to get his promotion. That’s if he just speaks from his experience instead of out his ass!”

He ignored the dirty looks he was getting and went on.

“Let’s face it, Liam, you know the answers to every operational question that they’re likely to ask, so your study leave should just be about getting the laws and relevant case evidence down pat.”

The DCS accelerated sharply, throwing his cocksure boss back in his seat.

“Lower the g-force, would you!”

Liam ignored the request, instead starting the very conversation that Craig had been hoping to avoid.

“But I get nervous in exams, boss, wild nervous. I have done since I was wee.”

“Have a relaxing massage before you go in then.”

“Then I’ll just get lecherous.”

Craig’s eyes saucered.

“God no, don’t do that! We can’t have you launching yourself at a female examiner. Try… try some herbal tea then. Yes, that’s it, herbal tea. Katy said camomile’s calming.”

“Then I’ll be busting to go to the wee boys’ room.”

Craig gave an exasperated sigh.

“For God’s sake, Liam, just choose something, anything that might relax you. I don’t care what you do, just pass your bloody board because I’m not breaking in a new deputy after all these years!”

Liam’s eyes widened. “But I could stay a DCI and still be your deputy! I don’t have to be a DCS, do I?”

“You could stay a DCI, I suppose, but then what happens when Andy or Aidan becomes a DCS? They both will at some point. Then one of them might ask to be my deputy and what could I say?”

He put on a sing-song voice. “You can’t have it because Liam’s my ‘bestest’ friend?”

The annoyance on his deputy’s face made him laugh.

“Why would you want to stay a DCI anyway, Liam? Because you’re afraid of a bloody interview? Catch a grip. Wouldn’t you rather do the same job for more pay? You’re saving to send your kids to university so it will come in handy. Anyway, shut up for a minute and,” he pointed abruptly to a layby, “pull in there.”

The Ford swerved across a lane of traffic and decelerated to a shuddering stop.

The deputy gazed out at the street curiously and said, “Why are we here?” making Craig raise his eyes to heaven.

“God, the temptation to answer that one like Sigmund Freud… We’re here, Liam, because it’s almost elevenses time and,” he pointed to a shop beside them, “that’s a branch of your favourite sandwich shop.”

He clicked off his seatbelt. “Now, give me your order or I’ll buy the first thing that I see and empty it over your head.”

The DCS stared at him huffily. “What’s eating you?”

Craig gave an exasperated sigh and waited for the order, leaving the car a minute later to the words,

“Maybe you should take some camomile, boss. It isn’t good to get so uptight.”

Chapter Seven

The Atlantic Ocean. The South-West Coast of Ireland.

They were landing their second catch of the day when the words that Gerry Eastwood had been dreading hearing soiled the clean ocean air.

“It’s time for another outing, Ger.”

The teenager pretended not to hear. It was a legitimate ploy when even a calm sea like today’s was noisy with gulls crying overhead and waves slapping at the trawler’s hull.

But years of seamanship had taught them both to tune out the background cacophony in favour of a human voice; essential when survival could depend on a call of, “Starboard” or “east ten degrees” to avoid a coming squall. So, his companion wasn’t fooled and the boy’s feigned deafness was punished with a short, sharp punch to his back.

He took the blow stoically, adding it mentally to a tally of hundreds over the years.

“Don’t ignore me, Ger. I know you heard what I said.”

“I heard, but it’s too soon, Dermot.”

Sidestepping the next blow coming his way, his brother always punched in twos, the slight young man made his way down the deck to where their earlier catch lay in a water-filled tub.

As he edged towards it, Gerry Eastwood had the thought he’d had often in the previous year.

What if I crowned Dermot with the boathook and shoved him over the side? Who would ever know?

Accidents happened all the time at sea, and surely no-one would suspect him? They were brothers, for God’s sake, and a fishing team for years. Until the year before they’d made up a trio with their father; then he’d retired and life had gone even more to hell.

He shook his head despairingly. God, why had Da left him?

Gerry already knew the answer, and when he was feeling fair, he even understood. Their father was past seventy and the sea had long ago taken its toll in arthritis. Now the poor man could barely straighten up and his hands were gnarled and knotted like rough-hewn wood.

He only took their small tug out now; once a day and never far from shore. Just distant enough to gather some fish for the freezer and ease the longing that all mariners felt for the sea.

But it was when Da had retired that it had happened. Dermot had finally gone insane.

Oh, not frothing at the mouth insane; that he could maybe have handled. It would have shown itself in public and Doc Hanratty would have had to sign him into hospital for a cure.

No, this insanity was something different.

To the world his older brother looked as normal as he’d ever done, which had never really been normal at all. Yes, Dermot passed the time of day well enough, grinning at people in the shops and cinema, and he did his job like a good big son, bringing in more fish and money now than their Da ever had and making their Ma force a smile for the neighbours who admired the newfound ease in their lives.

‘Our Dermot’: the big lad, the first born, was doing his family proud.

To the world.

But at home… and even worse now, to him…

Gerry lifted a pole and began swirling the tub water, finding the action soothing when his mind was anything but calm.

The family had known that Dermot wasn’t ‘right’ for years, although they’d done their best to hide it from the village, enduring his moods and the violent assaults on whichever one of them he chose for target practice on a given day.

But in the past year, to him, his only brother, Dermot had shown something more; his true face, worse than even their parents could conceive of. He wished to heaven that he never had.

The reveal had been slow, the first sign just a day after their Da’s retirement, as if Dermot had been waiting for that starter pistol to fire. A comment dropped about somewhere called the Dark Web, a place that even he, comfortable with computers, had never heard of before.

But then Dermot had always been the clever one despite his ‘issues’, getting high marks and tipped for college before he’d said that he would rather work the boat. Whereas he’d had school trouble from the kick off, with reading mainly, worrying his poor folks and needing a tutor’s help.

It had worked better than anyone had expected and now his greatest pleasure lay in the pages of books. But his loving brother had preferred the former, dumber version of him and reminded him of it every day.

“Stop trying to think, Gerry.” Whack. “You’ll only hurt your brain, Gerry.” Whack. “I’m the smart one and the eldest, Gerry.” Whack. “So, you just bloody well do as I say.” Whack, burn, whack.

He’d repeated the mantra every day for years, until going against him had become almost inconceivable. For all of them. So, when Dermot had said that he was to be his crew after their father’s retirement he’d known that he had no choice at all.

Things had started subtly but built quickly. Mentions of the mysterious Dark Web and jibes about his ‘boring’ choice of reading that had only made him bury himself deeper in his books, first the classics and then in the more modern works of Orwell, Uris, and the rest. They’d sparked in him a desire to re-sit his Leaving Cert, and perhaps eventually get a degree.

The idea had made Dermot furious, but he hadn’t understood why then. It wasn’t as if he was that skilled a fisherman. Dermot could easily have hired a better man as crew.

That was when the smartpad had been shoved between his eyes and his pages; images of soft porn, titillating at first but then so tedious that he’d pushed them away in favour of his book. More fury, until refusing to watch the porn would earn him bruises and on more than one occasion broken ribs, breaks that he’d been told would multiply if he didn’t do as he was bid.

It became easier to look and nod as if in admiration, when really the images, at first just boring, began to revolt him as Dermot descended deeper into the web, into his beloved Dark Web.

But for a while that was all that had happened so he’d gritted his teeth and put up with it. After all, Dermot was his clever big brother who knew best; sure, hadn’t he been told so all his life?

Then one day late last summer it began.

The memory of it stayed Gerry’s hand for a moment, his pole stilling in the water as the things that he’d seen and tried hard to forget surged to the front of his mind. Dark videos of torture and depravity and people suffering against their wills.

He was no prude but the images had revolted him. He hadn’t dared show it, seeing from his brother’s glee that they were exciting him instead.

Still hopeful, he'd prayed that things would stay at that level: just images and videos and thoughts, with Dermot at the boat’s bow staring ahead and smiling, doubtless replaying the disgusting things that he’d watched.

But they hadn’t remained there and now he was trapped. Caught between one evil that tore at him; an evil that he’d been forced into organising, arranging, and helping dispose of its results; and a second evil; killing his big brother and watching his aging parents break their hearts.

That was if Dermot didn’t murder them first.

Gerry Eastwood gazed up at the sky, praying that a lightning bolt would hit him and end things. But it was a fine day at sea with no salvation in sight so he turned his eyes back to his fish, envying the simplicity of their existence with all his heart.

Sometimes he toyed with a third evil; calling the police. But on the slim chance that Dermot didn’t find out and kill his whole family, sending their first born to prison would send his parents to their graves. He would get locked up too but he wouldn’t mind much, at least it would give him time to read his books.

So, what to do?

As he began stirring the water again, ignoring his brother’s insistent, “I’m warning you, Ger!” the teenager knew only one thing for sure.

He couldn’t let it happen again.

****

The CCU. 12 p.m.

“Andy, where’s Aidan?”

The DCI responded, “SCA”, barely glancing up from his screen.

Craig said, “Get him down here, Liam. Ash too” and turned back to the DCI, this time tapping on his desk for attention.

“Look at me for a moment, Andy.”

This time the gaze was longer and clearly annoyed.

“I’m trying to get the victims’ details collated!”

Craig smirked at his cheek. Andy was many things: a gentle chocoholic, a failed romantic, a talented artist, and a brilliant thinker, but he was never normally rude. It felt reassuring to see the flaw.

“I know and I’m sorry to disturb you, but the C.C. said until that’s done, we can’t head south, so I just wanted to check on your progress.”

Andy sat back, shamefaced. “Sorry for sounding pissed off, chief, but it’s been hell getting info out of the Guards. They’re so suspicious of every question that you’d swear that I’d killed the boys myself!”

Craig perched on the nearest desk. “So, you’ve confirmed they were all tortured and murdered?”

The DCI nodded. “Yes, and in similar ways to our Vics. Not identical, for instance one pair had fractures of their fingertips that ours didn’t and various other details differed, but in general terms of age, gender, and disposal, I’d say we’re definitely looking for the same perps.”

“You’re thinking thumb screws for the fractures, I suppose?”

“Yep, and the boys in Clare had probably been placed inside an Iron Maiden. There were regular puncture wounds as if spikes had been driven through them.”

Craig sighed wearily and regrouped.

“The medieval torture methods suggest they may have advertised in a variety of DW groups and been catering for different audiences.”

Liam re-joined them.

“Well, it would make sense to keep moving around the cesspool. Staying in any one group too long might lead to someone developing a conscience and whistleblowing.”

Andy was sceptical. “I doubt that. It’s hardly Morality Central in there.”

Craig disagreed. “People with quirks are all different. Are the others coming down, Liam?”

Just at that moment Aidan and Ash walked in.

“I’ll be with you two in a moment.” He turned back to Andy. “What’s happening with the flyovers and satellites?”

“Ongoing. I’ve asked Theo Sheridan to keep an eye out.”

“Good.”

Commander Theo Sheridan ran the force’s Aerial Support Unit or ASU, which dealt with a myriad of support functions from CCTV to helicopter flights.

“Right, gather round for a quick update. Sorry, I know we’re all fed up talking. Liam, bring everyone up to speed on our visits to John and headquarters, please.”

With that he headed for his PA’s percolator, returning with a coffee just in time to hear his deputy say, “Fist DNA.”

He let him run with things a while longer, only intervening after, “and then we can call the Guards.”

“Thanks, Liam. Right, the C.C. needs us to confirm that all seven killings fit the serial model before he’ll contact the Garda Commissioner and declare an island-wide case, so let’s focus on that. Andy, update everyone on the first four deaths, please.”

A table appeared on the screen with seven names, dates, ages, and locations.

“OK. The bottom three names you know. They’re the victims found in Antrim but originating from Galway-”

Nicky’s voice came from behind them. “I meant to say, sir. That Antrim DCI would like an update when you get a moment.”

Craig didn’t dare look round, already hearing her smirk.

“Fine, put a sticky in my office.”

Ignoring his deputy’s undisguised stare, he waved Andy on.

“The other four lines contain our southern victims. The top two are the victims found in Bantry: Jason Freeland and Tobias Butler, aged seventeen and nineteen respectively, abducted at the end of July last year and found dead in late September. The next two are Karl McElhinney and Max Warne, both eighteen, abducted in October and found mid-December near Doolin in County Clare.”

Craig signalled to interrupt. “Where were they from, Andy?”

“Freeland and Butler were both students at a technical college in Cork City, and McElhinney and Warne were members of a GAA club in Dingle in County Kerry.”

Craig turned to the group. “What does that tell us?”

Ryan was first to respond. “That the killers were looking for young men, but not just from universities. They hunt anywhere that young people gather in numbers.”

“Young people, yes. There would have been girls in both locations yet they’re only killing the men. That’s assuming the GAA club is mixed gender, Andy? Most are.”

“It is, yes.”

Craig nodded briskly. “Right, let’s move on. The first set of victims, Freeland and Butler. Were they friends? Were they abducted together? And from where?”

The DCI checked his notes. “They were more like associates than friends and only recent ones. They met when they started an engineering class together just weeks before their disappearances.”

“Separately or together?”

“They were abducted together, chief. The reports said they were working late on a project at a college workshop and left to catch the last bus, but neither arrived home.”

“Bus or buses? Were they heading in the same direction? And did either actually get on the bus?”

“Bus singular. Same direction - both lived in the suburbs south of the city. And the bus had CCTV that showed they weren’t on board.”

Craig tapped the desk thoughtfully. “How far was it from college to the bus stop?”

“Less than a mile.”

“Well-lit or dark road?”

“The second. The route was down a narrow lane with no cameras.”

Craig fell silent, motioning his deputy to fill in the gaps.

“The perps must have watched Freeland and Butler for long enough to know that they’d take that route after their workshop. Late at night was the perfect opportunity to snatch them.”

Craig came back in. “And this is confirmation that there must be at least two perps. Abducting two victims together would have been impossible for just one man. OK… continue, Andy.”

“Right. So, what’s interesting is that those two Vics were found in a cliff cove near Bantry in County Cork, only seventy miles from where they disappeared, whereas the two Vics found in Clare came from Dingle in Kerry and the distance that time was one-hundred-and-sixteen miles, and our Antrim Vics came from Galway, and the mileage there was over two hundred.”

Craig rubbed his chin thoughtfully before asking another question.

“The victims found in Clare, were they taken together or separately?”

“Together again, and this time they were friends. They’d been playing various GAA sports together since primary school.”

“Snatched at night or during the day?”

“At night after a practice game. They lived in the same rural area of Dingle and always walked home together.”

Liam tutted. “Unlit country roads. You can barely see a step in front on them at night, so the perps could have gone undetected till the last minute.”

Craig made a request.

“Put up a map of Ireland and mark the locations on it, Andy.”

Another ‘Enter’ and just such a map appeared.

“Here’s one I made earlier.”

Ryan chuckled. “You sounded like a children’s TV presenter there. You know, ‘Here’s a sample I made earlier from sticky-back plastic and the inside of a toilet roll’.”

That prompted a laugh.

“Talk us through it, Andy.”

The DCI walked over to the screen. “Davy, hit enter, will you.”

Three red lines appeared.

“These three lines show the distances between the abduction and disposal sites, which have grown with each set of victims-”

Aidan raised a hand to halt him.

“What were their home to abduction site distances?”

“Less than ten miles for all of them, but I’m not sure if that has significance. Kids tend to study and play close to home.”

He turned back to the screen. “In the case of our Antrim victims, the leap in distance supports the theory that we’re missing a set of victims. Also, and this goes to what we discussed earlier with reference to killers’ comfort zones, given the Cork distance is the shortest, surely that supports Cork being the killers’ home county?”

Craig turned to the group. “Anyone disagree with that? Or agree for a different reason?”

Aidan raised a finger.

“Agree or disagree, Aidan?”

“I agree, guv. I think the killers’ genesis case was Freeland and Butler and somewhere in County Cork is their home turf.”

“But you have a different reason for agreeing?”

“Maybe. Has anyone considered that the killers might revisit the bodies?”

Craig felt like someone had punched him in the gut. They hadn’t considered it, but they, or at least he, should have.

He recovered quickly. “I agree that might work in County Cork, if it’s home, but how about the other disposal sites, Aidan? The distances getting longer with each kill seems to fly in the face of revisiting being part of the killers’ M.O.”

The DCI gave an equivocal shrug. “Not if they have a boat, guv. With that they could access anywhere on the coast any time they fancied. But yeh, I agree revisiting’s more likely with the Cork-”

Ryan cut in. “And how could they have known that the later bodies were still there, Aidan? I mean, let’s say they live around Cork so perhaps they passed the Bantry site regularly to admire their work or whatever. It’s a short trip so they might. But would they really have gone all the way to Clare or Antrim to revisit just on the off-chance? Didn’t they put effort into the body display on the precise assumption that their Vics would be found?”

Craig took that one. “Not necessarily, Ryan. The disposal array could have been a compulsion. Some kind of signature they were driven to leave and that gave them pleasure just from the act. In fact, leaving the bodies to be found at all, when they must have known that it risked them getting caught, does point to compulsion-”

Liam cut in. “Or arrogance, boss. Some of these nutters think they’re flameproof even when they’re on fire.”

“Arrogance is possible, but it’s more often associated with pure dumping. Abandoning bodies and not taking time for display. But I agree about the travelling, Ryan, although my guess is that they would have kept an eye on the news and known whether the bodies had been discovered before setting off.”

Aidan came back in.

“Maybe they originally planned to use the Bantry cove for all the bodies. After the cops had found one set and removed them, then they’d leave the next set in the same place. Until one of them realised that could alert the Guards to which area of Ireland they felt most comfortable in and get them caught, so they started increasing the distances?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“But… if they didn’t learn that lesson till after Bantry, there might be evidence of revisiting on the first set of bodies.”

He was right and Craig was big enough to say it.

“Yes, there might. Excellent catch, Aidan.” He turned back to his lead DCI. “Andy, when we start working with the Guards, get the notes of the first four PMs to John for a second look.”

Liam scoffed at him. “And then what? He won’t be able to swab them, will he. Those boys will be six-feet under by now.”

Craig shook his head. “Those murders are still unsolved, Liam, so the bodies will be in cold storage until there’s a perp to take to court. I am right on that, aren’t I, Andy? The Guards haven’t pinned the deaths on anyone yet?”

“Nope. All seven still unsolved.”

It was a sharp reminder that three of those failures belonged to them.

“OK, good work, Andy. Keep going.” He returned to his second DCI. “Aidan, I’ll come to the Dark Web stuff in a moment, but first, Felix Sanders. What do we have on him?”

The detective gave a heavy sigh.

“I spoke to Marlene about him specifically…”

Craig felt himself wincing at the SCA chief’s name and hoped that it hadn’t showed. His deputy’s arched eyebrow said that it had.

“…and she said one of her team specialises in studying paedophile imagery.”

Liam shook his head. “Who the hell would do that job? It would drive you mad.”

“Well, thankfully someone does or we’d be up a creek without a paddle. Anyway, Marlene said there were no matches yet, so good news.”

“Unless he’s dead.”

Craig frowned. “That isn’t helpful, Liam.”

“No, but it could be true, boss, so let’s face it now and desensitise ourselves before we really get into the search.”

The approach had some merit. Once you’ve faced the worst nothing else can shock you.

“OK, but only as an incentive to find who took him. Carry on, Aidan.”

“Marlene also asked him to search underground paedo sites and any Dark Web groups dealing with age-preferential paedos with an interest in pre-pubertal boys, so I’m just waiting for whatever comes back. In the meantime, I thought I’d go see Andy White and pick his brains on child trafficking. We know there’s a market for kids.”

Craig nodded vigorously. “Excellent idea, and as we have our very own trafficking expert here, I’m sure they’d love to accompany you. What do you say, Gabriella?”

“Gabby, sir, and I’d be happy to help. Could I get the details of Felix’s abduction?”

Andy gave her a wave. “I’ll send them across.”

A thumbs-up from Aidan acted as a signal for Craig to change tack. He was just about to when the tanned DCI remembered something that he’d forgotten to say.

“The groups are free, guv.”

“What?”

“It’s free to post an advert in any of the DW groups.”

“Is it indeed. That’s interesting.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Our killers like a bargain. Whoopee.”

“Less of the sarcasm, Liam, but you’re right, it doesn’t tell us much. Still interesting though.”

He turned to his junior analyst.

“OK… Ash. Tell us what you’ve found out about the Dark Web.”

To his surprise the analyst shook his head glumly.

“You found nothing?!”

“What? No. I mean, yes, I found plenty, chief. Too much. They’re well set-up on the DW upstairs.”

“Why so glum then?”

“Because even I was disgusted by what we found there.”

Liam chuckled. “And you the man who wanted to own a nightclub called ‘Psychopath Vibe’.”

“Yeh, well, I was younger then.”

By a year.

Craig motioned him on. “Tell us more about what disgusted you.”

The analyst pushed today’s trilby to the back of his head and held his hands wide apart.

“Well first, they have a whole bank of screens.”

Davy cut in, the competitive edge that he always denied having surging to the fore.

“How many screens?”

“Twelve. Three rows of four – all linked to major perv groups on the DW.”

Craig clicked his fingers to draw their attention back.

“And what was on those screens?”

“You name it, chief. Discussion groups and vids of violence, fetishes of various sorts, medieval torture devices, murder, cannibalism-”

That was Nicky’s cue to lift her handbag and head for the door. “I’m off for a coffee. When I come back, I really hope that you’ll be talking about flowers.”

Gabriella, who didn’t know the PA, gawped as she swept out. Seeing her reaction Craig smiled.

“Sometimes we get too dark even for a veteran like Nicky. She’ll be back. Carry on, Ash.”

“OK. Well, even I couldn’t watch twelve screens of that stuff all day, so I take my hat off to them…”

He tipped his trilby to underline the point.

“… Anyway, I explained our theory of the adverts and pay-per-view and Lily, Constable Granger, agreed to ask her people.”

Mary frowned, puzzled. “Her people?”

“The undercover detectives who work on the DW. Each has several groups that they’re embedded in, so they’re never suspected of being anything but perverts by the real perves.”

Liam gave a low whistle. “Their heads must be fried! Imagine mixing with perves all day.”

Aidan shrugged. “It’s no different to the undercover work we did in Vice.”

Liam pulled a face. “Ach no, this is worse, surely? In Vice you mainly dealt with old-fashioned prostitution and drug rings, this Dark Web stuff is more hardcore.”

Mary stared at him coolly. “You make prostitution and drug running sound like Mom and apple pie.”

The DCS tutted. “You know fine well what I mean. Wall-to-wall perves must be way worse.”

Craig decided that it was time to intervene. Competing over which unit dealt with the worst depravities wasn’t how he fancied spending his afternoon.

“Enough debate. Ash?”

“Yes, well, Lily was just about to contact her undercovers when Liam called us down, but she was hopeful. Like I said, they’ve been under for a while so they’re bound to have seen or heard something. I spoke to Lily about the moderator idea too. You know, whether the moderator of one of the fetish groups might have complained about an advert advocating violence or murder being posted in their group, and she said one of their undercovers was a group moderator, so he might know.”

“Did Constable Granger give you any idea of timescale, if successful?”

“Tomorrow sometime.”

“Excellent. Hopefully we’ll get something. Right, what else?”

Ryan indicated to speak. “Boats, chief.”

Before Craig could respond, Aidan cut in again.

“Sorry, I forgot to mention something. Bishop Pankhurst. I’m interviewing him tomorrow morning, and I was thinking of asking Mary along if she hasn’t headed south.”

Craig saw the D.C. nodding, so he nodded himself. “Great, but try to fit your trafficking meet in today, Aidan. I’d like to get the ball rolling on that first.”

He turned back to his inspector. “OK, Ryan. Tell us where you’ve got to on the boats.”

The D.I. responded by handing Davy a memory stick and pointing everyone to the screen.

“First slide, please, Davy.”

A graphic of around twenty different motorboat models appeared.

“So… our working theory is that whatever the killers’ main boat was, a fishing trawler or a yacht, they ferried the bodies into the coves on a motorboat.”

Liam frowned sceptically. “I still don’t know what was wrong with a rowboat. I’ve never even heard of fishermen using a motorboat.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “You’ve never heard of fishermen being serial killers either, I bet. But just to humour The King of Ireland, who let’s not forget was raised on a farm nowhere near the sea, explain why a motorboat is likely, Ryan.”

Ignoring Liam’s sniff at the reference to his rural origins, which he was proud of but didn’t like having referred to by city slickers like his boss, the inspector obliged.

“OK, two of the disposal sites were in Cork and Clare on the west coast of Ireland, the Atlantic Coast, dubbed the Wild Atlantic for reasons obvious to anyone who’d ever been there. The sea can get very rough and the currents are unpredictable year-round, so rowing a boat to shore at any time of year wouldn’t be something that I’d advise.”

Liam was having none of it. “What about coracles? My ancestors sailed those every day.”

It was an open goal and Mary took the kick. “So that’s why the Neanderthals went extinct.”

Craig couldn’t stifle his laugh in time, and no-one else even tried. It earned them black looks from his deputy which they all ignored.

Still chuckling, Ryan picked up his thread.

“OK, so that’s the west coast. Then you have the east coast around Antrim, and that’s rough too, what with the waters of the Irish and North Seas mixing, the currents, and our wild climate. But even on a calm, sunny day you’d have to be mad to risk rowing. That means a motorboat had to be used to ferry all seven victims to the coves, and one big enough to hold at least five men since there were three victims in Antrim.”

He gestured at the slide. “These are the motorboats sold in Europe and Scandinavia. There are others in the US and Australia but I thought these were more likely to be used in Ireland.”

Craig motioned him on.

“Then we had to worry about sufficient clearance in each of the coves so that the boat wasn’t in danger of running aground and having its hull ripped apart.”

Aidan cut in. “At high or low tide?”

“That was tricky. When the bodies were discovered in Antrim the tide was out, leaving only the victims’ feet in the water, but we know they were probably left at high tide. What about the earlier victims, Andy?”

“I’ve just received the files, but I can give you what I’ve found so far.” He paused suddenly, shaking his head. “No, it would be quicker to just list the major differences and similarities between the cases. OK, chief?”

“Go on.”

“Right. Everything I know so far leads me to believe that our perps aren’t paedophiles or traffickers, although they may have resorted to one or both with Felix Sanders.”

Liam shuddered at the thought.

“Also, none of the boys was found wearing any jewellery, and it wasn’t found in their pockets.”

Craig raised a hand to halt him. “You’re sure they normally wore some?”

“Most of them, yes. Tobias Butler always wore a set of steel dog tags that he’d had specially made with the call sign ‘Winter Soldier’. It’s a Marvel character. He also wore a bracelet of twisted silver. Two of the boys wore their father’s old watches, I have photos of them, and one wore a gold cross that his mum had given him to keep him safe.”

Aidan shook his head sadly. “Poor woman.”

“Yes. But the thing here is that none of that jewellery was found with the boys, even though the Guards managed to establish that the clothes they were all found in were their own.”

Davy gave a puzzled frown. “Their own? You’re sure?”

“The files state it clearly.”

“Then what was the point of cutting out some of the labels?”

Aidan took the question. “Probably to delay identification initially. But once the parents saw the clothes they knew.”

The analyst frowned again. It felt like an unsatisfactory explanation, and just as Andy was about to move on, he spoke again.

“Did the parents actually see the clothes on their sons’ bodies, Andy, or were the clothes laid out separately from where they were asked to ID?”

The question startled everyone in the room except Craig. It had already been on his list.

Andy recovered quickly.

“You’re suggesting that the boys may have been found dressed in other victims’ clothes but the Guards undressed them for the IDs?”

The analyst pushed his long hair back from his face. “The pathologist more likely, but yes. Let me think this through…”

They watched Davy’s giant brain whirring for a moment then he gave a slow nod.

“OK… take the Cork discovery. Two victims. When it’s time to ID them the doctor only shows the parents their faces. Yes?”

Andy nodded. “That’s standard practice.”

“Yes, it is, but in this case, it could also have served another purpose. I’m assuming the boys’ torsos showed signs of beatings?”

“It says so here.”

“And you’ve already told us about their finger fractures, and no-one would have wanted the parents to see those, so only the faces were displayed. So, did the pathologist then say, ‘Your son was found wearing this and this’ or did they just lay out both sets of clothes in the hope that the parents recognised something?”

Liam frowned. “But why would the perps have swopped over the Vics’ clothes?”

The analyst shrugged. “Gaming, maybe, or more likely s…sadism. Removing even the dignity of wearing their own clothes in death. Or, if we ascribe some logic to these people, perhaps they thought that if one of the bodies was washed away before discovery then the other would be found in clothes that didn’t belong to him and that might slow or prevent his ID.”

Craig nodded. “A forensic countermeasure. But gaming works as well. If these killers are mentally disturbed-”

“If, boss?”

“Yes. If, Liam. Some killers are undoubtedly disturbed but many are just plain evil. You know that.”

Aidan chipped in, “That’ll be on your exam, mate.”

Craig continued before his deputy could retort. “Witty, but I doubt it. As I was saying, if the killers are mentally disturbed then swopping the clothes only has to make sense to their minds. But if they aren’t, as a forensic countermeasure it could have bought them some time, especially if, as Davy said, one of the bodies had been washed out to sea and never found. As for the jewellery, I’m fairly sure we’re looking at trophy taking there.”

“Not theft, guv?”

“I don’t believe so, but Davy, it’s probably best to check with the pawnshops. The intrinsic value of the items would have been low, except for perhaps the watches, but as something to help psychopaths remember their kills jewellery is invaluable. Were there items missing from all seven victims, Andy?”

“I’m not sure about our three yet, but the first four, yes. Also, all four of the southern bodies were found within a day of death-”

Liam cut in. “All seven. Our three were as well. But that would make sense with the frequency of coastguard patrols, wouldn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. I checked their schedules and the coastguards don’t patrol those coves every day, so it’s my feeling that the killers wanted the victims found quickly and deliberately timed their disposals to coincide with the next known patrol. What do you think, chief?”

Craig motioned the DCI to continue while he thought about it.

“Only the Clare and Antrim Vics were found with their feet submerged, so the question is, do we believe that the feet being submerged means something? Like the chief said, it might be their signature, and they mightn’t yet have found one when they killed the first two Vics.”

Davy spoke again. “To guarantee that their feet stayed submerged for discovery, the bodies had to have been left when the tide was lowest.”

Craig shook his head immediately. “Not possible. The bodies had to be left at high tide to ensure the boat’s hull remained intact, but there was no sign of seawater on the Antrim victims apart from small spots of spray, which means they weren’t submerged when they lay in the cove. So…”

He visualised how the seemingly opposing things could have been achieved and smiled.

“Andy, check the high tide clearances in each cove approaching the shingle, and the angle of the shingle to the water’s surface.”

The DCI smiled. “That’s just what I was about to cover. Can I use the board?”

“Fire ahead.”

A moment of sketching and the DCI stepped back to reveal what looked like a soup ladle.

“This scooped area is the cove approaching to the shingle, which needed to be full enough with seawater to allow the motorboat’s hull to clear. The line drawn at an angle up from it is the shingle beach. Angled high enough for a body to lie there completely clear of the sea water, except for its feet which were deliberately dipped in. That configuration exists in each of the three coves where bodies were found.”

Liam whistled admiringly. “Clever.”

“Very, and I’ve no doubt that’s partly why they were chosen. The feet could have been left in the water and the scoop meant that even if the tide went out along the coast it wouldn’t have dropped by much in there.”

The same thing must have applied to the Mediterranean coves that he’d seen.

Craig smirked. “Meticulously planned. And, on the point of the perps timing their disposals for quick coastguard discovery. I agree. I think that’s exactly what they did, which goes against the idea of revisiting, Aidan. If you plan to revisit you want your victim to remain where they are, not be discovered quickly by a coastguard.”

The DCI shrugged. “It was worth a punt.”

“Yes, it was. OK, Let’s return to the boat clearances. Ryan.”

The inspector nodded. “OK, so at high tide the scoop clearances in the Cork, Clare and Antrim coves weren’t huge.”

“Who provided your measurements?”

“The coastguards. The southern team had already had their coves and the surrounding area measured and I asked the northern team to measure Antrim’s for me. They took account of sea floor rocks on the route in as well.”

“How many of your motorboats does that rule out?”

“I have another slide.”

A graphic of just four motorboats appeared.

“These are the only boats that could enter all three coves without having their hulls ripped on the way.”

Craig walked over for a better look.

“I recognise two of these models, and they seem small to carry five men. For space, I mean. I don’t know about their load bearing capacity.”

“Space and load bearing is sufficient on all four boats, chief. I checked with the manufacturers. But now look at the figures beside the sketches. They’re the weights of the motorboats while empty. So, although they could all carry five adult men, if we allow seventy kilos for each man then two of the boats would no longer clear the coves when full. Next slide, please, Davy.”

Two of the boats had disappeared, leaving one motorboat model that Craig knew and one that he didn’t.

“So, only these two could clear all of the coves’ floors at high tide with five adult men on board?”

“Yes. Now, the final factor. The trawler or yacht that carried the motorboat. It’s actually more common for a trawler to carry a motorboat than a yacht, although it does occur. Bear in mind that both vessels would be required to carry lifeboats too-”

Liam cut in. “Will the loaded motorboat’s weight have a bearing on the size of the yacht or trawler?”

“It will. But reverse engineering accurately enough to identify the large boat will be a challenge. All I’ve come up with so far is maybe asking the powers that be for a list of the largest trawlers and yachts moored in Ireland, and what’s the maximum weight of motorboat they could each carry.”

He cast a pleading look around. “All alternative suggestions gratefully received.”

There was silence for what felt like ages then Davy broke it with a question.

“Chief, would a motorboat carried on a larger boat need to be registered with a separate mooring and license?”

“I doubt it. I think it would just be considered an integral part of the larger vessel in the way that lifeboats are.”

“OK… then my next question is, where are motorboats usually carried? On the deck or attached to the side of the boat?”

“The side, for ease of lowering into the water.”

“Then wouldn’t an important factor be that the motorboat doesn’t unbalance the larger vessel with its weight? Including when it’s loaded with passengers? Because they’d have to be on board before it’s lowered to the sea.”

Craig’s mouth rounded. “Oh…I see what you’re getting at. Whatever the large boat is, yacht or trawler, it can’t be one that’s unbalanced by the weight of a motorboat plus three-fifty kilos for the men. That implies something of a similar weight is counterbalancing on the other side.”

The analyst nodded. “But how many lifeboats would it take to counterbalance that weight? And what size of trawler would carry that number?”

“Perhaps it isn’t only lifeboats, Davy. If this is a working trawler there could be heavy hoisting equipment fitted on the lifeboat side as well.”

“This could be a way for Ryan to refine his search. Ask the coastguard what size of boat could carry that weight on one side and still be safe, rather than just asking about the biggest one. That might produce a list. Then you could ask about counterbalances, lifeboats, or equipment. If there’s hoisting equipment, it’s likely to be a trawler.”

Craig nodded. “Agreed. Then once we’ve narrowed things, look at transponder signals all for the relevant dates and times. The killers probably switched theirs off, but if it happened suddenly and at sea that should have raised eyebrows.”

Liam shook his head. “But what if they never switched it on like we discussed, boss? If they left harbour dark and stayed that way for their whole trip?”

“Then our search will be a whole lot tougher. But even so, it’s hard for a big boat to go completely unnoticed on open water, Liam. We might get something. Ryan, keep Gabriella up-to-date on your progress on all this, ready to take over when you head south.”

Turning back briskly to their outstanding tasks, Craig landed on Grace’s description, Mary’s guns, and Davy’s sub-crimes.

“OK. Everyone, take ten minutes. We’ll restart with Grace’s description of our Galway perp. Who has that?”

Andy waved.

“Fine. We’ll follow up with guns and Davy on sub-crimes.”

As the chairs shifted, the chatter began, and people headed for the kitchen, Craig went in search of his PA and found her down in the staff canteen.

As he approached, she said, “Done with the torture, sir?” loudly enough to draw attention and earn him dirty looks.

“Yes. And thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome. A girl has to get her revenge somehow.”

He smirked and indicated the queue. “Would you like anything? They have some decent looking donuts.”

After a second’s hesitation, “Oh, who cares about calories, I’d love one” came back and when he took a seat opposite her a moment later Craig was carrying two.

He rarely ate sweet things, his mother’s childhood warnings about them ‘rotting’ his teeth, which sounded so much worse in Italian, usually ringing in his ears. But he was tired today and sugar gave a quick boost.

Eyeing her prize eagerly, the secretary asked, “Is the briefing over?”

A mouthful of dough forced the detective to respond by shaking his head, and ten fingers held aloft told her the rest.

“Well, I hope ten minutes is long enough. It took me a lot longer than that to get past what I heard. Will the next part be gory too?”

Another headshake brought a relieved smile.

“Good. I’ll head back upstairs with you then. I want to be there at the end to stop you running off before you sign your letters. Other bosses stay in their offices all day, you know, but you never sit still, so getting things signed has turned me into a real targe.”

Craig smiled at the old-fashioned word.

“I haven’t heard ‘targe’ for years, Nicky. It’s Ulster-Scots, isn’t it?”

“It is. It means a bold, scolding woman, and that’s what chasing you around for your signature is turning me into.” She giggled in a most un-targe-like way. “Gary’s taking a class in the dialect. Getting in touch with his heritage he calls it.” She rolled her eyes, “I mean, I’m from an Ulster-Scots background too and proud of it, but I’d far rather he took a cookery class to give me a rest one weekend. Anyway, we were reading some of the vocabulary the other night and I saw all these words from childhood that I never use now, but I’m going to, so targe will be just the first. I’m going to call Liam thran next.”

“Meaning?”

“A twisted, contrary being.”

Craig chuckled. “I’ll look forward to that.” He pushed back his chair. “Right, this coffee’s dreadful so I’m going back upstairs for a decent one. Will you join me, Madam?”

With a gracious nod, she did.

****

The moment they walked back on to the floor Nicky’s phone rang, so she completed her entrance with a dash.

After, “Yes? Put him through” she waved Craig over, handed him the receiver and signalled that it was the C.C.

“Yes, sir? …No… I’ll ask him for it…That’s all settled?... Thank you. Tomorrow it is then” followed, then he ended the call and turned to face his team.

“OK, we’ve got the OK to head south provided you send the C.C. a copy of your completed table, Andy. So do that when we finish the briefing and then you, Mary, and Ryan, hand over your work and get ready to leave for Galway in the morning. The Garda chief there is expecting you at lunchtime. It will take you that long even if you leave first thing.”

The DCI nodded. “The quickest way is train and hire-car.”

“Whatever you think.”

Craig retook his position at the front and turned briskly to his constable.

“Let’s take guns first. Tell us what you’ve got, Mary.”

She responded by commandeering the screen.

“Right. As you can see from this slide, there are over a thousand registered target clubs and several thousand guns currently circulating on the island. Fifty-nine clubs in the north and a whopping nine-hundred-odds down south. They’re only the guns that are licensed, of course. Who knows how many more illegal ones are out there.”

Jaws dropped at the numbers and Liam commented first.

“I knew about the clubs. My Da used to be a member of an all-Ireland one. The members were mostly farmers and most of the guns were shotguns for keeping down pests on their land.”

Craig looked to his constable for confirmation.

“You’re not wrong. Most clubs are rural. Probably full of culchies chewing straw.”

A culchie is a term for someone from the country, a rustic; sometimes used as a putdown but sometimes used affectionately by country people themselves.

Knowing that Mary had been aiming for the putdown and seeing Liam’s gaze narrow ominously, Craig moved them on.

“Thanks for that colourful description, Mary, but let’s stick to facts. Can you break the licensed firearms down by type?”

She changed the screen and the breakdown that Craig had requested appeared. Most of the weapons were indeed shotguns, but there were still too many rifles and handguns for his taste, and even some machine pistols on the list.

“Tell me about the rifles, Mary.”

“They’re mainly air rifles used for shooting rabbits, poor things, but there was a small calibre gun in there as well. Somebody obviously fancies himself as a cowboy.”

“And the rest?”

He couldn’t think of any legitimate reason for people having private handguns, and definitely not machine pistols, so he was interested in what she might say.

“Most of the handguns and the machine pistol belong to Northern Irish police or ex-police. The handguns are allowed as personal safety weapons…”

It figured. Police officers were still a shooting target in Northern Ireland, mainly for dissident republicans.

“…but not all the others, so I’ll need to investigate the other carriers. And the machine pistol definitely needs checked-out. It makes sense that if people have been vetted for licenses, they’re clean, but…”

“It’s always possible that someone slipped through the net. I agree. OK, make a list of the ones that need investigation and hand it over whoever’s looking at-”

“That would be you and Liam.”

“Yes, right, I’d forgotten. In fact, we’ll be pursuing both the boat and gun work with Gabriella. I’ll speak to you afterward about that, Gabriella. One last thing, Mary. Did you find out whether any guns were owned by sailors or fishermen?”

“Not yet, but I’ve searches running.”

Davy called across. “Send those to me.”

“Thanks.”

“Good work, Mary. While we’re with you, Davy, you were looking into sub-crimes and precursors for us. Anything there?”

Suddenly irritated by his long black hair falling into his eyes, the analyst ripped a rubber band off his wrist and wrenched the mass into a ponytail before answering, giving Liam time to make a quip.

“Time for a haircut, Samson?”

Nicky shook her head hurriedly.

“Don’t say that to him! Don’t you remember the last one he had? Maggie made him do it and he was grumpy for months.”

Maggie Clarke was the analyst’s wife of one year.

The normally easy-going Davy was indignant. “She didn’t make me! No-one can make me do things.”

The PA smirked at his stubborn streak.

“I admit, she might have suggest-”

Craig cut him off. “Can we please move on. And don’t make personal comments, Liam, especially not when they come from jealousy.”

Everyone looked at Liam’s sandy scrub and laughed.

Before his deputy’s indignation could join his analyst’s, Craig repeated, “Sub-crimes and precursors, now!”

Davy picked up his cue.

“I did as you suggested, chief, and searched for both male and female victims of any crimes that carry a precursor association with murder, however weak. I also added in the psychopathic triad characteristics. Well, two-thirds of it. The killing or mutilation of animals and arson. There are no formal records for the third point in the triad, bed wetting.”

“Any joy?”

“Yes and no. There were no male victims that fitted…”

Craig’s heart sank.

“…but a lot of females. I found female victims of abduction and attempted abduction and rape, so many that it was rendering my results useless, so I added a geographic filter to search only for those around County Cork, since we believe that’s possibly our killers’ home patch. I went back for two decades, assuming that our killers are in their twenties, or oldest thirties, now, and factoring in that it’s rare to find a crime committed by a child under ten.”

“And?”

“Still all female Vics, I’m afraid. Women really get a rough deal in this world.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You don’t say.”

“Yeh, well, let me offer a big ‘Sorry’ on behalf of my gender. Anyway, this time I was able to trace the perps who’d committed the crimes because, good for Cork, most of them had been caught and tried, if not all convicted. But there’s a negative, chief. None had any links with the sea that I could find. No fishermen or sailors and no-one lived right on the coast. I’ve produced a map of their addresses.”

A tap displayed it onscreen.

Craig shook his head glumly. “Landlubbers, every one of them. So, no male victims at all and no assailants of the female victims with links to the coast. What about fetishes and torture, Davy?”

A gleam appeared in the analyst’s eyes.

“Yes and no again, but this time it was more hopeful. No fetishes, but what I was going to say a moment ago was that something else showed up in my first search. Under the torture-mutilation of animals and arson. In Cork in two-thousand-and-five a child aged ten set fire to their parents’ house. I don’t know how bad the damage was.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Can’t say. The records were sealed because it was a kid.”

Liam cut in. “A kid who would be twenty-eight now.”

Craig nodded.

“Anyway, also a few years later, between oh-ten and oh-thirteen, there were spates of small fires in the woodlands around Cork, chief. Small animals were found dead near some of the sites, although whether that was done by the same perp… but the interesting thing was that some had been tortured and their spinal cords had been cut.”

Nicky wailed, “You promised me it wouldn’t be gory!”

Craig gave an apologetic shrug. “Blame Davy.”

The analyst gawped at him. “So much for collective responsibility!”

“Sorry. Go on, Davy, and cover your ears for a minute, Nick.”

“Well, that’s pretty much it so far. No attempted abductions or sexual crimes against men in the Cork area over the past two decades, but a ten-year-old who committed arson, and someone else who set fires and perhaps also treated bunnies very badly over the following years.”

Craig refused to look at his PA, certain that the mention of ‘bunnies’ would have precipitated a full meltdown.

A wail of, “Thumper” confirmed his fear.

He forged on, desperate for one solid piece of information that he could follow.

“This ten-year-old, Davy. No way of finding their gender? Maybe from newspaper reports of the fire?”

The analyst shook his head. “Nope. I checked those and nothing. Even the address of the fire wasn’t listed, probably at the request of the police or social services. It would have given up the kid’s ID.”

“And the juvenile records were sealed...”

“Maybe even expunged by now.”

Craig sighed, then pulled himself up briskly. “OK, I know it’s a longshot, but keep digging on this, please. Perhaps the animal reports will yield something. How close were the woodlands to our Bantry disposal?”

“There were fires in lots of different woodlands around Cork, but it isn’t a huge county so probably none were that far from Bantry or the first Vics’ college. But there’s nothing firm to suggest a link between any of the precursor behaviour and our perps, chief.”

“Not yet, but every killer starts somewhere. See what you can get on geo-profiling, Davy.”

He turned to the group. “Does anyone else have ideas on this?”

Aidan raised a finger. “On the home arsonist. How likely is it that the little pyro gave up after one fire?” He answered his own question. “Not very would be my feeling, so it could have been the same kid setting all the woodland fires years later. I get that the juvvie records are sealed, but checking with the local fire brigade direct might help, Davy? They keep records of all callouts so they might have something. Or maybe they spotted someone watching as they were dowsing the fires, but didn’t write it down? Perhaps they even cuffed their ear if they were a kid. People did that kind of thing back then. What I’m saying is, local knowledge on your pyro might help.”

Craig nodded firmly. “Good idea. Speak to the police in the area too, Davy. They mightn’t have documented it, but they might have had suspicions about who was responsible and be willing to share them with you. People’s memories are never sealed.”

Mary cut in. “But won’t they all be dead now? The cops and firemen, I mean.”

Liam stared at her incredulously. “Some might only be in their forties or fifties! It happened less than twenty years ago, not during World War Two!”

She looked so unconvinced that Craig laughed.

“Mary thinks most of us should be on Zimmers, Liam.”

Anyone expecting her to correct him would have been wrong.

“Oh, to be young again, boss. You just wait, Missy, you’ll be thirty soon and then some pup will call you old.”

“Nah. Beauty advances mean that I’ll look twenty till I collect my pension.”

“Touché.” Craig turned back to his analyst. “OK, Davy, good work and keep going. Your triad could lead us somewhere. Right, that takes us to Grace’s description.”

Ryan looked at him quizzically.

“Of the man who approached the Sanders brothers. Who did Grace send it to?”

Davy and Andy said, “Yo” simultaneously.

“One of you read it out.”

Andy obliged.

“You concluded that the Sanders brothers were probably approached in Merryman Square in Galway City Centre on the twenty-fifth of February this year by a young male, twenties maximum, of average height and build. Unthreatening looking. He had to be to entice the lads to go with him. You thought they accompanied him to a central but private location, possibly following his offer to view the new computer game that they had been queuing up to see. Oh, by the way, chief, it was released online a week before.”

“So, our abductor could have had a copy.”

Liam shook his head. “They could have, but why bother when they could just have lied about it?”

“Because if they had bought a copy, they could have discussed its contents with the brothers in the queue to better persuade them to come. On you go, Andy.”

“The rest we know. Once at the venue the abductor, either alone or with others, drugged the brothers, restrained them, and loaded them into a van or SUV. Then they got the hell out of Dodge knowing that a child alert would have been called quickly for Felix Sanders because of his age-”

Ryan interrupted. “How did they know he’d been reported missing?”

“The boys had been scheduled to meet their parents for a family dinner at six and when their father tried Nicholas’ phone it wasn’t answered. Perhaps the perps saw him calling, registered Felix’s age, and put two and two together that an alert would come next.”

Craig nodded briskly. “Thanks, Andy. OK, a couple of things from that straight away. Nicholas’ phone. Ash or Davy, try for its geolocation on that day and see how long it remained active for.”

Davy signalled to take it.

“Then we have the idea that a van or SUV was used to transport them. Andy, you’re heading to Galway, so ask to see all CCTV from the city centre that day. What else? Anyone?”

Liam jumped in. “If the kidnapper was young, late teens or twenties young, they can’t be our arsonist ten-year-old, boss. He’d have been an embryo or a baby in oh-five. He’s unlikely to have been the woodland fire-setter either. Still too young.”

“You’re right. But how easy would it have been for one man to load both Sanders brothers into a van in any case? Nicholas wasn’t huge but he weighed a decent amount.”

“So… you’re thinking that maybe the younger perp was the one who enticed them, then another, older perp joined him to do the rest? Maybe our bunny killer?”

He winked at Nicky as he said the words and received a glare in return.

Aidan nodded. “That would make sense. How do you think they were drugged?”

Liam shrugged. “A drink? Or if the second perp was waiting for them then maybe injected by force?”

Craig considered for a moment then walked to the board to sketch out the afternoon’s events.

“OK. This square represents the game store, and the circles are Nicholas and Felix. The queue to get into the store is long, so when our younger killer, this triangle, approaches and convinces them that he already has the game and could give them a demo, they leave the queue and follow him. Andy, if there’s no CCTV in that area check how many people in the queue the Guards interviewed and spread the net wider through them. Someone must have seen who approached Nicholas.”

“Will do.”

Next, Craig drew a dotted line.

“OK, so now our two circles and the triangle make their way to somewhere central but private in the city. It must have been close to the store or Nicholas wouldn’t have expected his younger brother to walk there, and Felix was too big to carry any distance.”

Gabby raised her hand to speak.

“Could the triangle have had a car, sir?”

“They could, and there’s no need to raise your hand, Gabriella. I’m lucky if I get a cough usually, and Liam just barges in.”

The deputy feigned offence.

“They could have had a car, but I’m going to say that it’s unlikely. Does anybody know why?”

When there was silence, he turned to his deputy, who was sporting a stubborn expression and folded arms.

“Liam?”

“Oh, is that a Royal invitation to speak? ’Cos I’d hate to just barge in.”

“Just get on with it, man.”

With a sniff, he did.

“The reason a car was unlikely is because the perp wouldn’t have wanted to do anything that broke the flow. Part of luring someone is not letting that person realise that they’re being lured, especially not when you’re in public and they could easily shout for help or walk away. So, you keep things smooth, keep up your patter and keep walking, until eventually you have them somewhere isolated. Stopping to look for your car, unlock its doors or pull out of a parking space would all have broken that flow.”

Craig smiled. “Exactly. Not to mention that parking in any city centre is hell, so they might have had to walk for miles or use a carpark with an attendant. Witnesses are the last thing a perp wants during an abduction.”

The Trafficking sergeant smiled at their level of detail. A murder investigation was a very different beast to her normal work.

“OK, good. Just returning to Nicholas’ phone for a moment. There’s no way the triangle could have asked him to ditch it because suspicions would have been aroused, so it must still have been active at that stage. Which means that segment of the boys’ route must be traceable, Davy.”

He drew a second, larger box on the board and tapped on it.

“This is our central, private location and probably the last place that Nicholas Sanders’ phone was live. Once inside this box the Sanders boys were in trouble. One or more men probably drugged or restrained them, disabled and/or perhaps ditched Nicholas’ phone, and put them in a vehicle. That vehicle then had to drive through Galway City Centre, which like all centres will have cameras everywhere, before hitting the outskirts.”

He turned to his lead DCI. “Andy, check if the Guards have found that location and checked it. Prints, DNA, you know the routine, and from the phone too if they found it. Davy, use Merryman Square as an origin point to plot all possible routes out of the city, and work with Andy on the cameras to see if you can ID the vehicle and where it went. Theo Sheridan should be able to help with the Guards’ CCTV. Following the van might lead us to the killers’ home or their lair. Once you have a list of possible locations, Ash, I want you to work your magic and find me a way to detect whether either venue was used to run web cams. You’ve done it before.”

He was quiet for a moment and when he spoke again it was to offer a theory that had been rattling around in his head all day.

“This is just a theory, but bear with me. Imagine a family with a troubled child, perhaps a boy-”

Ash interrupted. “Define family, chief. Do you mean a biological family, a foster family, a-”

Craig waved him down. “I take your point, and it’s a good one. Family… in this context let’s just define it as a close-knit group of people living together and raising a child or children, and let’s call the adults in the group parents. How the group is really linked we’ll hopefully discover as the investigation progresses. Everyone good with that?”

There were several nods.

“Good. Right, so this family is raising a child, a boy, one so profoundly troubled that even educated parents with access to resources would have found it a challenge dealing with them. A child who bed-wets for longer than usual, is cruel to the family pet, even tries to set their home on fire. An intelligent child who has them at their wits en-”

Liam cut in. “A budding psychopath, you mean.”

“Exactly. But I doubt anyone knew that at the time. Few people read true crime novels twenty years ago. But if pushed, the parents might have admitted that their child was ‘troubled’. Now, imagine that those parents aren’t educated or wealthy but simpler people. Private, rural, perhaps the kind who don’t like to air their problems in public. Maybe they’re even a religious family that prefers to pray and hope rather than visit a doctor-”

Ryan nodded. “There are plenty of those around even now.”

“There are. In many ways this island is still in the nineteen-fifties. Maybe those parents were the sort who worried about reputation or appearances, or perhaps they feared that if they told anyone the boy would be sent to a psychiatric hospital or even jail, so they covered for his fires and cruelty, hoping that it was just a phase.”

There were sympathetic nods from the parents in the room, each picturing the nightmare with their own child.

“Now imagine that boy growing up, and perhaps also growing more dominant than his parents. To the point where he starts to rule and perhaps even terrorise the home, making everyone afraid.”

He turned to his deputy. “What am I going to say next, Liam?”

The DCS smirked. “Now, what if this psychopath has younger siblings? What might he do to them as his psychopathy grows stronger? And what might he force them to do for him?”

“Exactly.” Craig set down the marker and rubbed his hands together briskly. “OK, that was just a theory but one that I’d like you to bear in mind as you investigate. We’ll find out if it’s accurate when we find our perps. Right, we’re done. You all know what you’re working on, so off you go.”

It may have just been a theory but it was a chilling enough one to imprint itself on all their minds.

Chapter Eight

The Labs. Third Floor Forensic Offices. 5.30 p.m.

Des Marsham peered down his new microscope, a shiny, chrome addition to his lab, so advanced and space-age looking that he half-expected it to speak back when he mused aloud, as he often did when he was seeking a discovery, his musing becoming excited utterances when he found something that he didn’t expect.

But for now, he was still at the musing stage and, checking that he was alone and none of his team had decided to work late, he decided to give it full vent, speaking to the substance beneath his lens as if it was a living thing.

“You think I won’t find out your name, don’t you? You think that I’ll just admire your smooth globules and elegant crystals and be dazzled by their perfection, you little minx. But I won’t. I’m not so easily seduced.”

Craig had decided to drop by the lab on his way home to ask about their DNA, and, in the absence of his deputy, who’d had a school play to attend, he had decided to take the stairs. The only bonus that he’d envisaged was exercise, but on entering the third floor he’d received another one as well; the sound of Northern Ireland’s Head of Forensics talking to a specimen like he was in love.

The words had brought him to a halt midway down the floor, and now he was standing there wondering what Des, who had his back to him, was about to say next.

He didn’t have long to wait before a loud, “OOH…you…” to hit the air, followed by, “tentatice”, French that none of them had learnt at school.

“Aren’t you beautiful? Yes, yes, you are. Now, let’s see if you have any companions, pretty lady.”

When seconds later there came an almost cooing, “No, you don’t, do you. You’re just pure rose,” Craig decided that it was only fair to announce his presence. Before things turned obscene.

He did so with a cough that made the scientist jump in his seat, and, after a few seconds’ delay, perform an extremely slow half-turn.

“I knew you were there, Marc.”

“No, you didn’t. But let’s pretend that you did.”

The alternative being a conversation that neither of them wanted to have.

He strolled towards the scientist, still talking. “So, rose? Liam was right then.”

Des swivelled round in his chair.

“He was, you know. Not just about the flower but about it being an oil. This sample came from your dark-haired victim, but I’m sure that the others will show the same. Their hands were anointed with pure rose oil, and I mean pure. I can’t find a single contaminant in it even after them lying on the ground.”

Craig pulled up a stool. “Does that have significance?”

“I’ll say it does. An oil this pure would cost a lot and is always imported.”

Craig’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You can’t source it here?”

Des shook his head emphatically. “Not at this level of purity. I’ve sent a sample to the FBI for an origin check, but from memory the only oil like this comes from Africa.”

The detective frowned. “So, whoever massaged the boys’ hands either came here from Africa or imported the oil from there. Would there be records of an import like that?”

Des considered for a moment. “If it was shipped, then yes, but if they brought it in in their luggage then no. It’s probably worth a word with customs. I can do it, if you like.”

“Please do. The squad’s pretty stretched with Annette away.” He went to leave. “I actually came to see what you’d found on our two DNA samples, but don’t worry, I can come back tomorrow.”

The scientist waved him down. “Patience, man. I have the DNA from under the fair-haired victim’s nails. The second one from the fist is still stewing. I only managed to separate it from the oil ten minutes ago.”

Beckoning him to a computer, Des pulled up the relevant screen and indicated the familiar barcode of DNA.

“OK, this came from skin lodged under the nails, probably from the boy scratching one of his assailants. But whether that assailant was one of your killers or-”

“Someone that they’d leased the boy to, remains to be seen. I understand. Any hits yet?”

“None so far, but given the wider possibilities in this case I want to send it to Interpol as well. OK with you?”

“Please do.”

“Right. As well as criminal checks, we’re running it against private databases.”

“Remind me again what those are.”

“They were developed by commercial ancestry firms when everyone became hellbent on finding out if they were descended from the Vikings and whatnot. The firms won’t allow us direct access but they will run samples through, so Grace sent them this one.”

“Anything you can tell me about its owner right now?”

“Just that they’re a European Caucasian male with dark hair and dark eyes. Oh, and they’re carrying the gene for red hair so they may have a hint of red in their beard.”

“Sadly, police databases won’t search for that.”

“Yes, well, I’m checking illness genetics too, so I’ll let you know about that some time tomorrow. Who knows, maybe our man has some rare genetic ailment that will hand you his name and address.”

Craig chuckled. “Maybe, but I won’t be holding my breath. Thanks, Des, that’s helpful.”

He made for the exit then turned back, eyeing the microscope meaningfully.

“I’ll leave you two alone now, but don’t do anything that I wouldn’t.”

The scientist’s noisy denials followed him all the way to the ground floor.

****

The CCU. Monday 1st May. Noon.

It had been an odd morning. Nothing so far from the Dark Web and zero sightings of Felix Sanders on kiddie-porn sites; even Aidan’s interview with Bishop Pankhurst had drawn a blank.

But even negative findings were useful. They allowed Craig to rule things out.

Pankhurst had been flirtatious with Aidan even though the DCI was well above his target age, but was so riddled with arthritis that it was unlikely he could have hurt a fly. The ‘Bish’ as he’d insisted on being addressed, wasn’t one of their killers.

As Craig gazed out his office window at the river, Aidan’s summary of the encounter rang in his ears.

“Pankhurst admitted to being Victorian in his approach to discipline at the camp, but he denied even a hint of sexual abuse and I believed him, guv. As for hitting on those Uni students, well, he struck me as more misguided than malevolent. Final points, he’s never been south of the border and has no links with Ireland’s west coast.”

Strike Jocelyn Pankhurst.

His deputies at the camp hadn’t produced much either. Only one had stayed in Ireland and he’d joined a cloistered order of monks and never left his cell.

Aidan’s trips to Vice and Trafficking had been slightly more fruitful but looked like being long games. He’d given Andy White whatever photos of Felix Sanders they could find and explained what was needed, and Andy had responded exactly as he would have and handed them straight to Gabriella, their seconded member of his staff. She knew her way around Trafficking’s systems and could run the searches from the murder squad-room. If Felix Sanders was being held by any of the island’s known flesh peddling or paedophile gangs, they should find out.

Craig turned away from the window and took a seat behind his desk, then changed his mind and walked to his whiteboard. He was just about to start writing when a knock came at his door.

“Come in, Davy” made the analyst smile as he did.

“One day I’ll work out how you do that, chief.”

The detective chuckled. “Or I could just describe how each of you knock and save your brain.”

He nodded the analyst to a seat and retook his own.

“Now, what can I do for you?”

“There are a few things.”

The analyst began scrolling through his smartpad.

“OK, first, I sent Ash back upstairs to work on the Dark Web. But I’ve been checking for missing Vics and might have struck gold.”

Craig sat forward urgently. “More bodies?”

“Something that might be, from a satellite and helicopter flypast. I’ve asked the coastguard to take a closer look so we should know for sure within the hour.”

“Where did the satellite locate them?”

He turned the pad round for Craig to look at a map. On the north Atlantic coast of the island near a beauty spot named Castlerock a red pin marked the spot. Clockwise from the second dumpsite in Clare and just inside Northern Ireland. It fitted.

Craig slumped back in his chair. “Damn. If they’re the third set of victims then they could have been lying there for months. How were they not spotted before now?”

Davy shook his head. “It might have been the weather, chief. The sea on that stretch can be brutal. Or maybe the cove is set so far back from the rest of the coast that it got overlooked.”

Craig nodded glumly. “Missing persons searches?”

“There are a lot of missing men on these islands who fit our victim profile…”

As the sentence tailed off, Craig nodded again.

“You’re right, of course. Let’s wait for the coastguard’s findings. Let me know as soon as you get them, Davy. Liam and I will need to head up there. Right, you said you had a few things?”

“What? Oh. Yes. I asked for CCTV from Galway City Centre on the day the Sanders disappeared. That’s come through now. But Andy’s still on the road, so I was thinking, to speed things up, I should go to the ASU and work on it with Commander Sheridan. I can do my other work, geolocate Nicholas’ phone and so on, from there while he takes a first look.”

“Great idea. Do it. Anything else?”

“One more thing. Doctor Marsham called and said he’d managed to source the rose oil to Africa and he was going to check import databases, but I offered to do it instead.”

“That was decent of you.”

The analyst smirked. “Not really, chief. The labs’ systems are antique compared to mine so we could be waiting all week for a result that I can find in an hour.”

Craig smirked. Perhaps spending half his annual budget on tech had been worth it after all.

“Just one thing on the oil, Davy. We know it was probably used during a massage by someone with a fetish, so either by one of our killers or someone who travelled to their lair. Distance inclines me to think they’re probably from Ireland somewhere, but they could also have come from elsewhere.”

The analyst smiled. “I’ve already marked a two-hour travel radius for visiting perps that takes in most of western Europe. You don’t think they’d have travelled any further, do you?”

Craig sighed heavily. Who the hell knew with perverts? He’d tried to put himself in their minds many times over the years but never been able to plumb the darkest depths.

Davy took his silence as doubt.

“You think I should increase the radius?”

“I honestly don’t know, Davy. These people are warped, so who knows how far they would travel for their fix.”

The analyst gave a decisive nod. “Three hours then, and if the import database throws up something further, I’ll go seek.”

“Thank you.” As Davy rose to leave, he added, “Would you send Liam in next, please.”

“He isn’t around, chief.”

Craig glanced at his watch. “Oh, it’s OK, I know where he’s gone.”

He followed Davy outside and was just about to sprint past his secretary when her hand shot up in a police halt.

“Don’t you dare disappear! I have letters to be signed.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Says the man who turns minutes into hours of AWOL.”

He put on his most persuasive smile. “Minutes, Nicky, I promise. I just need to find Liam, and as it’s lunchtime…”

“He’ll be in the canteen. All right.” She gave a regal wave. “You can go then.”

“Thank you, M’Lady. I’ll bring you a prize from my quest.”

It wasn’t a long quest because he spotted his deputy the moment he walked through the canteen’s door. But if he hadn’t seen Liam, he would have heard his moaning about the length of the queue.

“Ach, speed it up, would you. I’ll be dead from hunger soon!”

He turned at Craig’s tap on his shoulder.

“Oh, hi, boss. Have you ever seen the likes of this queue? It’s five miles long!”

A quick glance told Craig that five foot was nearer the truth.

“How come you’re here, boss? Peckish?”

“Not particularly, but it seemed like the quickest way to get a word with you. Davy thinks we have two more victims.”

Liam’s loud, “WHAT?” and one-eighty turn brought an order to ‘face front’ and keep his voice down.

His next, “What?” was stage whispered and followed by, “where?”

“Near Castlerock according to the satellite, and they might have been there since February. That’s if the coastguard actually finds something. Davy’s just asked them to check.”

“Satellite images can be misleading, boss.”

“But helicopter flybys less so and Davy organised one of those as well. If the coastguards find what we think they will then we’re heading up there after lunch.”

The server was busy loading Liam’s plate with curry so when he stretched out an arm to grab several cling-wrapped sandwiches Craig was surprised.

“Even you can’t eat that much, Liam.”

“Not now, maybe. But I’ll get hungry again in a few hours and we’ll be up north on a beach. Those places aren’t known for their cuisine, boss.”

Excellent point.

****

Galway City. 1.30 p.m.

The detectives had been aware that the south of the island was more prosperous than the north before their visit, a disparity enlarged since Brexit had begun to bite, and the evidence was visible everywhere, despite northern politicians’ attempts to refute it. Especially in southern cities, which more closely resembled European capitals than those in the UK.

But what had always surprised Andy Angel was how, alongside the ubiquitous smooth roads and shiny shopping centres of modern anywhere, Ireland was still home to tiny villages and small cities with a character and warmth that reminded him of photographs he’d seen of his grandparents’ pre-War home in eastern Europe.

They were standing in one such small city now in an open-air square close to its centre, gazing at a single-storey terrace of shops, one of which Nicholas and Felix Sanders had queued outside on a day two months before.

It made the DCI feel profoundly sad. Sad that two innocent boys intent on nothing but fun had been lured and taken, and sad that such a pleasant place, with its well-cared-for buildings forming an enclosure where people were meant to feel safe, had played witness to the events of that dreadful day and yet couldn’t utter a word.

It was those thoughts that were interrupted suddenly by Ryan tapping on his arm. Andy turned to see the Strangford man’s lips moving soundlessly, realised that his emotions were deafening him and shook himself back to the here and now.

“Sorry, what did you say, Ryan? I was a million miles away.”

Not true unless feelings could be measured in distance, but the D.I. knew what he meant.

“I said our Garda liaison has arrived, chief.”

He indicated a thin, brown-haired, brown-eyed woman in uniform with her hand already extended to shake. As Andy obliged, she gave her name in a lilting accent that he had never heard before. But then, this was his first trip to Ireland’s west coast.

“Garda Della Conroy, sir. Call me Della. I’ve come to show you the CCTV from that day and help in any way that I can.”

On his smile she indicated a nearby bench and sat down, removing a smartpad from a shoulder satchel that he hadn’t registered and scrolling through several screens until she came to a halt on a map.

“Right so. This is Merryman Square, where we are now. Almost dead centre in the city.”

“And the gameshop?”

She indicated a low, glass-fronted building directly in front of them then moved on quickly, tapping her screen to populate the map with blue dots.

“These dots represent CCTV cameras; public and private. There are eighteen in the square all told if you count the stores and offices.”

Andy didn’t conceal his surprise. “Eighteen! How many took footage that day?”

“Ten were working at the time. Not all quality images but we can see a bit on each. I’ve sent them up to your analyst. David Walsh, isn’t it?”

The Belfast team smiled. None of them had ever thought of Davy as a David; it made him seem very grown up. Which was of course completely illogical, since he’d clearly been given the name at birth.

Andy nodded as he smiled. “That’s him. Thank you. He’ll be working on the possible routes out of town.”

“Right so. You’d like to see the first clip?”

Before the DCI nodded, he glanced at the sky to check the light. There would be little point looking at a screen if they were blinded by glare. But they were in luck and within seconds were watching clear footage of the Nicholas and Felix Sanders entering the shopping square and joining their queue.

“The boys arrived in the queue at three-ten p.m., and at four-oh-five they were approached by a young man.”

Ryan tutted. “Long queue. If it had just moved a bit quicker…”

The rest of the sentence went unsaid, each person there adding mentally: ‘They would never have got bored and gone with a bloody stranger’, ‘They would both have been safe’ or, ‘The abduction would have failed and Nicholas would still be alive’ in different words.

Next, Della swopped cameras and fast-forwarded to show a dark-haired youth speaking to the brothers. He fitted their expectations perp almost perfectly: average height, average build, unthreatening looking and similar in age to Nicholas Sanders himself.

Andy made a rewind signal. “Take us back to the minutes before his approach.”

“Before?”

“Yes, please.”

They watched the dark youth appear at the edge of the square and walk across it. The instant that he made contact with Nicholas Sanders, the DCI called a halt.

Before he could explain what he’d been looking for, Ryan asked a question. “Do you have any better views of his face, Della?”

“Just one, from that camera there.”

The Guard indicated diagonally across the square from where they were sitting and swopped her screen to show the youth approaching the Sanders brothers face on.

He was ordinary looking. So ordinary that they would have looked twice. He wasn’t ugly and he wasn’t handsome and he was in no way different from anyone in the crowd. Even his clothes were ordinary; the jeans, trainers, and hoodie uniform of half of the world’s youth. The banality of evil.

Mary asked the important question. “Have you ID-ed him? That’s a clear shot.”

Della Conroy shook her head glumly. “We ran him against passports, driving licenses and offenders and got nothing. I’m hoping that your analyst will be able to help.”

Andy smiled reassuringly at her. “If his name and photo are together anywhere, Davy will find them. Ryan, give him a call after this and suggest he liaises with Grace on facial recognition. Between them they might get something.”

He turned back to their guide. “What happened next, Della?”

She ran the footage on and they watched the youth chatting to Nicholas Sanders, although not easily at first.

“Am I imagining it or is he nervous?”

After a few seconds of watching, Mary nodded. “He looks like he’s never done something like this before.”

Ryan shook his head. “No, he’s more than just nervous, he’s scared. Look how he keeps checking over his shoulder.”

Andy played the clip several times then agreed.

“You’re right, but he isn’t just looking over his shoulder. He’s looking up and to his right. As if someone was watching him from up there.”

He pointed to a high, stucco-fronted building behind them.

Della gawped at her screen. “I’ve watched this footage a dozen times and never noticed that! What do you think it means?”

Andy motioned Mary to respond.

“That someone, someone dominant judging by his anxiety, was watching his interaction with the Sanders brothers from that building. One of the upper floors. Do you know what it’s used for?”

An index to the square’s shops appeared.

“It’s an office building owned by J.J. Nugent, Accountants.”

Ryan spoke again.

“And this was a Saturday afternoon, so it was bound to be shut, making it the perfect place for someone to hide out. Did any of your CCTV footage come from Nugent’s, Della?”

She checked and shook her head. “No. There is an exterior camera mounted on the building but it wasn’t working that day.”

“Or someone had switched it off. But that doesn’t mean Nugent’s doesn’t have internal cameras, chief, and our dominant perp might have been picked up on one. We need to see that internal footage.”

Andy nodded but added a caveat. “If they’ve kept it. Can you find out, Della?”

“Surely. It’s a bank holiday today so the office will be closed, but I’ll call the keyholder.”

While she walked six feet away to do so, Andy tried the building’s front door on the off-chance. When he found it locked, he gathered his small team around.

“OK. What do we think here?”

He already knew what he thought but he wanted everyone engaged.

Mary got in first. “I think the dominant member in our perp-partnership couldn’t approach Nicholas Sanders himself for some reason, but he wanted to supervise the op.”

Ryan nodded. “And be local, so that as soon as the boys left the queue with his crony, he could follow to help with the abduction.”

“Yes. Good. But what does him supervising the operation tell us about him, beyond his dominance in the partnership? And his implied lack of trust in his accomplice, of course, which is interesting.”

Ryan came in again. “That he wasn’t the right type to approach the Sanders youngsters and be engaging. So… he’s either too old, too rough, or maybe too threatening looking? Whereas the perp we’ve just seen looks like a college student, not somebody that anyone would be afraid of, not even Felix Sanders probably.”

“Not even Felix definitely. Neither of the boys looked wary on that CCTV clip when they were approached. There’s another point too. No-one in that queue looked over twenty-five, and if our dominant does, he might have drawn attention.”

“And he wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Della re-joined them. “I’ve spoken to the keyholder, John Nugent. He only lives five minutes down the road so he’s coming now.”

Proximity. A small city benefit and one of the reasons they liked working in Belfast.

“I don’t suppose he mentioned whether his office had interior cameras?”

“He did indeed. He had some installed a couple of years ago after a theft, but the footage is held by the firm’s alarm company so he’s never checked its clarity. They haven’t had a break-in since so he hasn’t had occasion.”

“All we need is one shot of the perp’s face, so fingers crossed.”

“Should I show you what happened next with the Sanders boys while we’re waiting?”

“Please do.”

“So, the three of them chatted in the queue for a total of six minutes. Do you want to see it all?”

“Yes.”

The group watched as the younger perp gradually grew less nervous chatting with the brothers, until he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. Occasionally he would glance at the Nugent building; then his expression would grow fearful again and he would take a step back from Nicholas Sanders, but he always recovered well.

In minute four of the six, Andy called, “Stop!”

Mary looked at him eagerly. “What? What did you see? Is this your super-recogniser thing?”

But Ryan had seen it as well.

“He’s reluctant, chief. Whatever he’s been told to do he doesn’t want to do it.”

Andy nodded. “The body language is clear. First, he was nervous about approaching the brothers. That clip you showed us when he was entering the square, Della. Did you notice how he waited at the edge before entering?”

“Really? I didn’t see.”

“Show it again and I’ll commentate. OK, look, there he is approaching the square. Watch.”

He was right. The dark-haired youth stopped and stood in place for a full fifty seconds.

“See how he looks ahead at the Sanders and then down at his feet repeatedly while he’s there, but not up at Nugent’s offices.”

Ryan gasped. “Because in that position he’s hidden from the dominant’s line of sight.”

“Deliberately, I’d say. And look at his accessory body language. He’s biting his nails. Now he’s glancing behind him the way that he’s just come. What does that look like to you, Mary?”

“Like he’s getting ready to run! He was forced to take part in the abduction!”

“It certainly looks that way. At the very least, he doesn’t want to be there.”

The D.C. scoffed. “So why stay then? There’s no gun to his head. The dominant can’t even see him where he’s standing.”

Andy conceded the point. “No, not at that precise moment. But coercion can take many forms. Some people are submissive because they’ve been brainwashed to be that way by years of oppression.”

“You’re saying the dominant abused him?”

“We can’t know. But on that day, he clearly wanted to run and not take part on the abduction. Ultimately, he didn’t run but we don’t know why not-”

Ryan cut in. “What if he couldn’t, can’t physically escape the dominant, chief? What if they share a home? Or what if he knows that if he runs the dominant will harm someone else, someone he cares about?”

“Strong possibilities. Most of us assume that people can just walk away from violence and call them cowards if they don’t, but that isn’t always true. Sometimes there are consequences to escape. Anyway, that’s a puzzle for the future. Della, take us back to the conversation with the Sanders, please.”

They watched in silence as the youthful trio chatted and even laughed together, and something about the young abductor’s eagerness made Andy sad.

“He looks like he never has any fun.”

Even Mary could see it. “I know what you mean. We had a girl at school like that. She was always on her own and anytime someone made the effort to speak to her she was pathetically grateful. That’s what he looks like there.”

Ryan shook his head. “Let’s not feel too sorry for him. He was instrumental in an abduction that led to several deaths.”

Andy nodded. “Timely reminder. Thanks. OK, keep watching.”

They did and eventually it came to the fateful moment when the Sanders brothers detached from the queue and accompanied their abductor from the square.

“The perp looks miserable, chief. Why?”

Andy nodded. He’d seen it as well.

“Just look at his expression! And the way his shoulders have drooped. It’s almost like he-”

Mary cut in. “Doesn’t want to take them? Yep. A reluctant abductor. Go figure.”

Della pointed to their exit point. “They’re entering Bunratty Street.”

“You have CCTV from there?”

“Some. Would you like to see it?”

Just then a portly man wearing a too-tight beige polo shirt and chinos approached.

Andy reached out a hand in greeting.

“Mister Nugent?”

“I am, yes. Someone from the Guards called me.” He turned to Della. “That was you?”

“Indeed, it was. I’m Garda Conroy, and these are detectives from Belfast. I’m sorry to disturb your day, sir, but it’s important. Could you show us your offices, please.”

They followed the now-puzzled accountant to his premises and, after entering through a small reception area, climbed the stairs up to the first and then the top floor.

“Can you show us where your cameras are, Mister Nugent?”

“I can indeed.” He pointed to three silver discs set into the ceiling that matched another dozen or so decorative dummies. “There, there, and there, and then the same downstairs. They cover the entrances, the computers, and the safes where we keep important papers.”

“Exits?”

“Through the entrances. The building has no back doors.”

Ryan nodded admiringly. “They do look like decorations. Clever.”

“Yes, well, I used to have the old-fashioned obvious sort but my wife complained that they were ugly, so here we are. Several thousand pounds lighter but apparently infinitely chicer.”

Andy walked slowly around the open-plan office, considering the camera angles and potential overlaps, then walked down a storey to do the same. The cameras were well positioned. If someone had been in the building that day watching the Sanders brothers it would have been hard to hide their face from them. Unless that was, they’d had the foresight to cover up.

The only way to find out was to check the footage, so John Nugent gave them the alarm company’s details do they could disturb their CEO’s day as well. While Della made the call, the detectives viewed the CCTV on the boys’ exit from the square.

It was less useful than earlier footage. Just images of the Sanders brothers with their, now very obviously miserable looking, companion shuffling in single file down a narrow street, until about halfway down the footpath they took a sharp left.

“Where does that turn lead, Della?”

“Into a mews called Felicia Court. There are no cameras there unfortunately.” She rolled her eyes. “The residents’ association didn’t want them because of privacy. They clearly prefer to get mugged anonymously.”

The quip brought a laugh.

“I checked the cameras on the road at the other end of the mews, but there was no sign of the Sanders emerging. I checked three days’ worth and nothing. It’s very strange.”

Andy pictured the street plan in his head and nodded. “OK, you two wait here for the alarm company. Della, walk me through that route, please.”

Ten minutes later Andy had confirmed everything he’d been told. Felicia Court was a pretty, cobbled mews like many he’d seen in London, with quaint houses and abundant foliage that added to its charm but not a single camera anywhere to capture it.

He explored the short thoroughfare. Both sides held terraces of houses. On one side centuries’ old workers’ cottages long gentrified, and on the other, modern town-houses build in a style to match.

The brothers had clearly disappeared from this short thoroughfare, it was the only logical explanation, yet without images showing them emerging or space between the houses to squeeze a vehicle through, how in God’s name had they been taken away?

Feeling himself growing agitated, a rare state for him and one that was never useful, he retreated to the mews’ end for a long view. Conscious of Della watching but knowing that he couldn’t afford to rush, after a full minute of scanning his surroundings, the DCI finally narrowed his gaze to those town-houses which had garages on their bottom floors.

As he began his approach one of the garage doors opened and a middle-aged man emerged.

“Excuse me, sir, could we have a word?”

Della flashed her badge hurriedly. “I’m Garda Conroy, sir. We’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right?”

Initially taken aback, the man retreated a few steps to perch on the bonnet of his now visible car.

“Fire ahead, officer.”

Della nodded her Belfast colleague to take the lead.

“These garages are roomier than they look from the outside, aren’t they, sir?”

The man chuckled. “They are that. Everyone remarks on it.”

“I see you drive a saloon, but would they be big enough to hold a van or a large SVU?”

“They would. In fact,” he led the way deeper into the garage, “as you can see, my wife’s SVU parks comfortably behind my car. We got it for the kids.”

Two car-seats in the back confirmed his words.

Andy led them back out to the mews before asking his next question.

“You have a back wall to your garage, sir, but would you know if any of the others along here have a second exit instead?”

The man nodded. “A few, yes. The doors are visible on the next street along. The builders offered us the option too, but we decided against it. Sure, isn’t one street of traffic quite enough for kids to risk running into? You’d need eyes in the back of your head if there were two.”

Andy remembered his own son as a toddler and gave a heartfelt nod.

“By any chance, would you know which of your neighbours chose a second exit?”

The man shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, no. We all moved in at different times and apart from the odd residents’ barbeque we don’t socialise. But I’m sure the city planner’s office could tell you. Our building plans had to be lodged with them so I’m sure the others were the same.”

Another CEO was about to have his bank holiday disturbed.

****

Castlerock. The North Atlantic Coast of Northern Ireland.

It was a beautiful area, no question. Miles of unspoilt countryside edged by miles more of unspoilt beach, all being lapped, or pummelled depending on the weather, by Atlantic Ocean waves.

As Craig strode along the sand gazing out at the water, his face whipped by a salt-tinged breeze, he wondered why he had never sailed this stretch of sea. Yes, he’d been raised in the south-east of the region, but for only an hour’s drive he could have savoured this view as well.

The man beside him wasn’t savouring anything; he was moaning. Loudly.

Sod the beauty of nature, he would leave that to the Italian poet at his side, Liam was cold and his feet were getting soaked from the remnants of last night’s tide.

“Why didn’t you tell me to bring a coat and boots, boss? You’ve a duty of care towards us.”

Craig would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t been squinting them to avoid being blinded by the wind.

“I’m not your bloody mother, Liam! If you haven’t the sense to wrap up then don’t blame me. You’d the sense to bring plenty to eat, hadn’t you?”

The moan he knew that would provoke was thankfully aborted by the appearance of a man more sensibly attired in an oilskin and wellington boots.

“Are you the Belfast detectives?”

Craig nodded.

“Good. I’m Coastguard McGonagle. Come this way.”

A few steps on he indicated Liam.

“What’s wrong with yer man? He’s making a shocking noise. Is he ill or something?”

Craig tugged his jacket tightly around him before he replied.

“Or something. Ignore him, he’s just cold. We were both too stupid to dress for the coast so we’re getting what we deserve.”

It earned him a chuckle from the sailor and a growl from his deputy that he ignored.

“Aye, well, there’s not far to go. Just around that prominence.” McGonagle indicated a rocky outcrop and as they approached it, he added, “There’s a lady copper from Antrim already there.”

The words hadn’t had time to sink in before the first curl of Julia’s red hair came into view.

The sight cheered Liam up considerably.

“Oh, ho. Now we’ll have a show.”

A horror show, to punish Craig for his unfeeling words. Or so he hoped.

As more curls appeared atop a small head and a slender frame followed, sensibly clothed in a ski-jacket and sturdy boots, Craig caught his breath. Julia was still stunning, with the same pre-Raphaelite hair that he remembered releasing from its bindings to cascade in tendrils down her naked back.

He steeled himself quickly against their effect and arranged his face into a smile before calling out, “Hi there,” deliberately adding a cheerful wave just to piss his deputy off.

The pretty face that turned to his greeting was smiling as well.

“Marc!”

She moved towards him almost as quickly as Craig moved towards her, much to Liam’s disgust and the coastguard’s surprise, both of which escalated when the detectives hugged each other.

“Is that how you coppers normally greet each other?”

Liam was indignant. “No, it is not indeed!” adding, with a curl of his lip, “Those two are exes.”

McGonagle looked shocked. “I thought exes were supposed to hate each other.”

“So did I,” he tutted loudly and indicated his boss, “but he does nothing the way he’s supposed to.”

Just then Julia spotted Liam and came over to hug him as well, giving a lie to all that he’d just said.

“And Lovely Liam! My cup’s really running over today.”

She turned confidingly to the coastguard. “Watch this pair, Barney, they got up to all sorts when I knew them.”

Craig arrived beside her. “As did you and Gerry as I recall. Where is Gerry nowadays, by the way?”

When they’d met, Gerry Shaw had been Julia’s sergeant at Limavady.

“Still in Limavady. He’s the DCI there now.”

“Good man.” He saw the coastguard looking dumbfounded and apologised. “Sorry, we haven’t seen each other for years. But we’re holding you back, so lead on.”

A minute later he was sorry that he’d said the words.

Barney McGonagle led the way past the promontory and into a small shingled cove, where two decomposing bodies were laid out side-by-side with their feet in the waves.

Julia offered some commentary. “This is how we found them. They’re male and young, that’s all we really know so far. Our pathologist has been and gone so we’re just waiting for the CSIs.”

“Did he say how long they’d been dead?”

“A couple of months give or take. Their precise cause of death will have to wait for the PM.” She gave a small shudder. “But he said that their spinal cords had been severed.”

Liam nodded. “It’s the same perp, boss.”

“It is.” He turned to McGonagle. “How hard would it be to land a boat in this cove?”

“Never easy. The sea can be rough on this stretch of coast and there are a lot of rocks beneath the surface. Even in the best weather it would take an experienced hand.”

“Big boat or small?”

“Small. A big one couldn’t get past that narrowing.”

He pointed a short way out to where some rocks had formed a strait.

“Any idea of the hull clearance here?”

Seeing the coastguard’s eyebrows rise, Julia explained. “Marc sails, so he knows about that stuff.”

The admiring tone in her voice set Liam’s ‘Ex-Radar’ on high alert.

“Ah, right. Well, I don’t know the precise clearance, but it’s deeper than you’d think. There’s a dip. The shingle runs up at a slant.”

Like the other disposal sites.

Craig nodded. “OK, final question and then we’ll leave you in peace.” He ignored the cheer coming from behind him. “Have you ever seen a fishing trawler with a motorboat on its side?”

McGonagle nodded easily.

“Many times. Rowboats aren’t much good in rough seas, so even some of the older fishing boats have replaced them with motorboats.”

Signalling his thanks, Craig turned to his ex-girlfriend. “Is there somewhere warmer we could go? I’d like to bring you up-to-date on the case.”

To Liam’s joy she replied, “There’s a family pub a mile inland. Follow my car. It’s the blue Fiesta. I’ll prime my constable to wait here for the CSIs.”

Thirty minutes later they were fed, watered and Liam had finally stopped moaning, so it was time for Craig to lay out their case. As he did so, Julia’s alabaster skin grew even paler.

“I had no idea it would come to this when I called you in on Friday!”

“None of us did. This makes nine bodies now and whoever’s doing this will only stop if they’re caught.”

Liam shook his head. “Or killed. And you know which one I’d prefer, boss.”

Julia smiled. “It’s reassuring to see that you haven’t changed, Liam.” She turned back to Craig. “But you have, Marc. You’re… calmer.”

Liam scoffed. “Not always he isn’t. He’s still a bloody demon if a perp looks like getting away.”

He nudged Craig with his elbow. “Show her the picture of your Luca. He’s a real wee man now, looks like he walked straight out of Italy too.”

A photograph of a black-haired, dark-eyed toddler was produced, then another of Julia’s children, both of whom were white-blond.

“They didn’t get your red hair, lassie.”

“No.”

Liam turned away quickly to avoid her seeing his smirk. Not a mention of her obviously blond husband’s name. Accidental omission or deliberate?

If Julia had caught his smirk, she’d clearly chosen to ignore it, because when she spoke next it was in the same tone. But the expression in her eyes was unreadable.

“Liam’s right, your son looks like a real little Italian boy, Marc. I bet your mum is over the moon.”

“She’s already got him speaking the language, and she’s teaching him piano as well.”

Craig’s mother was a retired concert pianist.

“Although,” he added loyally, “Katy plays too.”

Spotting a glint in his deputy’s eye and knowing that he was about to shit-stir, he hastily moved things along.

“We’d better be getting back to Belfast now, Julia, but when do you estimate your PMs and CSIs will produce something?”

“Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Great. I’ll ask John to contact your labs.”

As he rose to pay the bill, she murmured so softly that only he could hear, “Will you keep me up-to-date, Marc?”

She would definitely get updates on the case, but it wouldn’t be him providing them. He might have mellowed slightly since they’d dated but he hadn’t lost any of his instinct for danger, or the one for hunting, and right now both those instincts were screaming that too much time spent with the beautiful woman by his side risked him losing everything that he held dear.

****

SCA.

As Ash eased down in his seat and started tapping the keys in front of him, he couldn’t help his gaze sliding sideways towards the woman who’d been tapping them for the previous half-an-hour. Detective Constable Lily Granger; his age, punkishly pretty, and almost as IT literate as he was. He thought he might be in love.

The analyst was just deciding what to do about that when, “Are you ignoring me?” came from the target of his affections, in an annoyed tone that suggested it probably wasn’t for the first time.

Jerking upright, Ash fixed her with as earnest a gaze as he could muster and shook his head.

“I wouldn’t. Ever.”

He had hoped that the ‘ever’ would convey his intended fidelity in any possible relationship between them, but instead it just came off as creepy as hell, something that both Granger’s slight recoil and the clip around his head that Aidan immediately administered underlined.

Twisting round to scowl at the detective, he added, “Ow!” in case his annoyance wasn’t clear.

“It was only a tap, so stop whinging.”

Rubbing his head theatrically, the analyst muttered, “I’ll tap you” then added more loudly, “When did you arrive?”

“I’ve been watching you working for five minutes…”

Which really meant that he’d been watching him leching.

“… so, what have you got?”

Knowing a challenge when he heard one, Ash decided to call his bluff.

“Lily’s better placed to tell you. She has amazing contacts on the DW.”

Aidan smirked, knowing that he’d just heard a two-fer; both admiring and crediting the girl at once. Feminist credentials nicely displayed in preparation for asking her out on a date no doubt.

“D.C. Granger it is then. What can you tell me?”

He watched the constable’s fingers fly over the keys until she’d accessed a chatroom, then she sat back so he could see the screen. It was just as unappetising as he’d expected.

“This is a fetish chatroom, sir. Quite a mild one. It’s for hand fetishists, but the non-violent fetish rooms all look much the same.” She indicated a discussion thread. “You’ll see here that one person, handle ‘Nail-file’…”

Aidan fought to conceal a smirk.

“…is waxing on about the perfect nail shape. And another member called ‘Cuticles’ is arguing that square is better than oval.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. Whatever floated your boat he supposed, but who the hell could get that worked up about nails?

“And you’re looking at hand fetishes because?”

“Because your victims had all had their hands carefully cared for and massaged with something rose scented.”

“It was an oil. We’ve just had confirmation from forensics. And a very expensive oil too. They believe that it was imported from Africa.”

He turned back to Ash.

“Davy’s set up a search programme for imports but he’s busy with the CCTV from Galway so he said he’ll need you to take that.”

The analyst tipped today’s hat, a black fedora which even Aidan had to admit looked cool.

“I can do it from up here.”

“Whatever.” He returned to their original point. “Go on, Constable Granger. You were telling me about hand fetishists.”

As she swivelled her chair to face him, he noticed that she was wearing heavy black-patent ankle boots with neon-green laces. ‘Plain clothes’ clearly had more adventurous parameters when you didn’t have the public judging everything that you did.

“Lily, please, sir, and we have an undercover officer in the fetish groups.”

“One in each or one for all groups?”

“The second. He spends all day online. Not here but downstairs in Vice.”

Vice had moved with the times. Aidan felt proud of his old unit.

“How long has he been under?”

“A year.”

“So, the chances of him having seen an advertisement, if our perps posted one, are good?”

“Excellent. He’s already sourced one posted around the hand groups.”

The DCI sat forward eagerly. “Do you have a date for it? Better, dates?”

As she put a list of four dates onscreen, Aidan read satisfaction on his analyst’s face.

“Do these fit with our abductions, Ash?”

“It looks that way. The Cork abduction happened last July and the first advert is dated the week after. It looks like an ad went up a week after each of our three known sets of abductions. We won’t know if the fourth date fits until we find the chief’s missing bodies.”

“They began lining up customers almost immediately after each snatch! Bastards!”

Remembering that he wasn’t in his own squad-room, Aidan went to apologise but saw that Lily hadn’t taken offence and was laughing instead.

“You murder squad people say whatever’s in your heads, don’t you?”

“Sorry, yes. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I thought it was funny, sir.” She glanced towards Marlene Porteon’s office. “We could do with a bit more of it around here.”

The DCI smirked.

“OK, so we have fetish ads a week after each abduction. I don’t suppose you have a copy of one, Lily? I’m assuming the ads were the same in each group?”

A nod and a tap displayed one of the most sickening pieces of prose that Aidan thought he had ever read, and as he’d headed Vice for years that was saying something.

Taken individually the advert’s word were innocuous, and perhaps even strung together if the context hadn’t been known, but knowing what had been done to their victims the paragraph felt obscene.

‘Would you enjoy an opportunity to massage hands or even a whole man for as long as you wished? Everything including oils can be provided. Visit Freedom.com. Online viewing will also be arranged.’

“I checked the website address but it was down, sir. I’ll follow up on it.”

Quickly replacing disgust with logic, Aidan considered what it meant. Not the offer: that much was clear; either respondents could attend in person to assault their victims or they could pay to watch someone else do it on the web.

But the order of advertising mattered; exactly where the massages had sat in the endless calendar of abuse their victims had been subjected to was important.

It prompted him to ask another question.

“Have you been working on fetishes for long, Lily?”

“Six months. Ever since I joined the unit.”

“OK… And in that time have you ever encountered a violent fetishist?”

“Yes, but almost always along with other things like sadomasochistic sex.”

“And are all fetishists involved in such other things?”

She shook her head firmly. “No, there are lots for whom the fetish seems enough. Hands, feet, shoes, whatever. Our undercover confirmed that and he’s been deep inside, like I said.”

It fitted with his own experience from Vice.

Aidan indicated the screen. “He found that advert in the hand groups, yes? Was it in any other groups?”

“Not fetish groups. Well, not that he saw.”

His radar pinged. “OK, I’ll come back to that, but first, are you saying that he didn’t see it in the foot fetish groups?”

“Yes, I mean no. No, it wasn’t in any other fetish rooms, just hands. I suppose they relied on word travelling to other fetish groups or the advert being shared.”

Ash’s eyes widened. “Maybe this means the business with our Vics’ feet was just down to one of the perps.”

“Not necessarily. They advertised a ‘whole person package’ as well, remember. OK, that’s useful, Lily, but let’s go back a bit. You said your undercover hadn’t seen the ad in any other fetish groups, so where else did they see it?”

She tapped several keys and a different version of the advert appeared. Equally brief but this time advertising the opportunity to rape men. More taps showed an invitation to torture and another to subject men to interactive violence, fighting probably.

Aidan felt sick, and part of him worried for the woman in front of him; should anyone so young be exposed to such filth? But he didn’t dare say it for fear of being accused of some ‘ism’ or another.

And to be fair, he’d only been twenty-six when he’d first joined the Vice Squad, so was it really her youth and supposed innocence that he was being protective of or her gender?

He wasn’t sure he was even allowed to think that way nowadays, never mind offer protection; life in the twenty-first century was such a minefield of potential and sometimes unpredictable offence.

He shook off the thoughts and returned to the advertisements, all now displayed side-by-side on the screen.

“OK… what about advertising the opportunity to kill our victims, Lily?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that the undercover could find. He found adverts offering the chance to watch men being killed, but not to actually do it.”

Ash understood immediately. “Our perps must have reserved that pleasure for themselves.”

There was silence for a moment, then Aidan straightened up briskly.

“Right. Let’s think about this logically. It’s unlikely than non-violent fetishists would engage with any person who was showing visible signs of torture, or even discomfort, so the hand and whatever massages had to have been scheduled before any of the nasties occurred.”

Ash shook his head immediately. “Would that have worked, chief? I mean the rose oil was still on their hands when you found them and it was bound to have rubbed off during all the other stuff.”

Aidan reworked his thoughts before speaking again. “All right, how does this sound then? Fetishists apply to take part, then they travel to the victims to carry out their hand massages or whatever. Maybe they use their own potions, if that’s part of what turns them on, or maybe other potions are supplied. But the rose oil is only applied by our perps, and just before the bodies are dumped.”

“That could work.”

Lily agreed.

“OK… Meanwhile, as our travelling fetishists did their thing, more fetishists were watching online-”

Ash cut in. “Does it happen all together or one at a time? If lots of people pay to carry out massages, I mean.”

“Singly and sequentially, probably, perhaps with sessions spread out over a few days. There’s no limit to how many private massage sessions could have been sold on each victim or how many people might have watched online. The more sessions that our perps allowed the more money they would have made.”

Lily pulled a face. “These fetishists mightn’t have been violent but they can’t have been nice people, because even without signs of torture it must have been obvious that your victims were being held against their wills.”

Aidan nodded. “They were all bastards because they were all guilty of coercive behaviour and assault, but the fetishists weren’t our killers, Lily.”

Ash was scowling.

“What’s that look for?”

“If anyone laid a hand on me to try any of this shit, I would hurt them. I mean really hurt them.”

“And our victims probably fought back too, Ash, but ultimately when there’s a threat of death hanging over your head it’s surprising what you’ll accept.”

The analyst shook his head vehemently. “No way.”

“We can debate that another time. For now, let’s move on. Once the fetish phase was over that’s when the perps would have moved on to offering the other abuses. What were the timings of the later adverts, Lily?”

As more dates came onscreen, Ash rearranged them into a calendar.

There was a clear pattern. Soon after each abduction an advert had appeared in the hand fetish groups, then, a few weeks later and in different specialist groups, adverts for the other abuses had appeared spaced well apart. What they couldn’t tell was whether the time spans allocated to each particular abuse had varied or overlapped. That was impossible without reading individual responses to the ads.

“OK, the calendar shows our perps advertising the different sessions, and, logically, scheduling time for the practices to occur at their end. Ash, what’s the gap between the first fetish advert and the final interactive violence advert, and then between that advert and the bodies being found?”

More tapping and then, “First to final advert spacing varies from three to five weeks. Final advert to bodies being discovered is always two weeks plus one or two days.”

“Making the total from abduction to death around two months. And the time from the disposals to new victims being abducted?”

“Around three, four weeks each time.”

“And then a week later the advertising cycle starts again.”

Lily nodded. “So, where are you in that cycle now, sir?”

“In the three-to-four-week pre-abduction period, if our perps stay true to form.”

She looked at him curiously. “And we shouldn’t expect to see another hand fetish ad until a week after that abduction occurs…”

“No.”

“So… why are no adverts ever posted before abductions, sir? To line up customers, I mean.”

Ash jumped in before Aidan could respond. “The perps must have wanted to make sure they’d caught their victims first.”

But Aidan had seen what the D.C. was getting at and he wasn’t quite so sure.

“You could be right that our perpetrators weren’t quite as confident of success in their abductions as we’ve been thinking, Ash… and perhaps they aren’t abducting to order as we’d speculated. After all, psychopaths like to choose their own victims. Or perhaps…”

There was something on his mind but it refused to come forward, and as he reached for it, it slipped away.

The DCI shook his head to clear it then rested back in his chair and locked his hands at the back of his neck.

“OK, let’s stick to practical things for now. Once it got past fetishes to the darker stuff, I wonder if the different adverts might have been posted more widely-”

Ash cut in eagerly. “Using the logic that the range of violent things offered wouldn’t have bothered any of the violent groups’ members the way it might have the fetishists.”

“Nearly right.”

Seeing confusion on the analyst’s face, Aidan went on.

“What I’m getting at, not very clearly admittedly, is that while most members of the violent chatrooms may not have been bothered by the mention of rape or torture or violence, there will undoubtedly have been some who weren’t over the moon.”

Ash was incredulous.

“You mean some who would find the idea of rape repulsive but wouldn’t mind a bit of torture?!”

“Yes, and other combinations. Lily, has your undercover gathered a list of the chatrooms that the later adverts were posted in and information on who engaged?”

“Yes to the list, sir, but he only knows the cyber-handles of the people who discussed engaging, and to my mind there’ll be far more who kept that information to themselves.”

“Fair enough. OK, next question. Were adverts for all three practices posted in all the different violent chatrooms like I’ve speculated, or were the torture ads just in torture chatrooms and so forth?”

“I’ll need to check, but he implied that they were all posted in all kinds of violent chatrooms.”

“And no-one complained?”

“Come to think of it, there was something, sir. I’d forgotten about it until now. Another undercover officer, the one who’s a moderator in a chatroom, mentioned that the rape advert was drawn to his attention by the moderator of a torture chatroom.”

“They didn’t know he was a cop,” was added hastily.

“What exactly did the complaining moderator say?”

“That he found it outrageous for a rape ad to be posted in his chatroom.”

Ash palmed his face in disbelief. “A prudish torturer. We’re really in the multiverse now.”

Aidan nodded wearily. “Sadly, I’ve heard of moral segmentation like this before. Everyone likes to believe somebody else’s bad behaviour is worse than theirs.”

“A ‘hierarchy of evil.’ Hey, I might just copyright that.”

Aidan smirked. “I’m fairly sure somebody already has. We need to follow up on that moderator interaction, Lily.”

“Will do.”

“Good.” Unlocking his hands, Aidan pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

“Ash, come back to the office with me and get on that import programme. It needs to run through murder’s computers for our records. And you’ll need to follow up on the website listed in those ads.”

Lily shook her head. “It would be better for me to do that, sir. Our firewalls are stronger than yours.”

Ash nodded furiously, spotting an opportunity to see the constable again.

“Yeh, and the chief said I’m not to access the DW at base again. Porn tsunami.”

Aidan knew exactly what he was up to but he let it pass. He wouldn’t stand in the way of romance, or not nowadays anyway. In past years, when he’d been even more of a cynic, he would have teased it into its grave.

“OK, Lily, thank you for your help. Could you copy that schedule and the adverts to me, and if you get anything on the website liaise with Ash.”

As the men walked off the floor and began clattering their way down the stairs, the DCI gave Ash a knowing glance; one which the analyst staunchly ignored.

****

The minute Craig arrived back at the squad-room he barricaded himself in his office for some peace. Sixty minutes of Liam’s relentless ribbing about Julia had worn him down and he could hear him still at it outside.

“You should have seen them, Nicky. All smiles and hugs.”

The secretary frowned so hard that her Botox-smoothed forehead managed to corrugate into faint tracks.

“ACC Craig as well?”

Liam was about to say yes when his conscience pricked him.

“Aye well, the boss was friendly like, and definitely pleased to see her, but…”

The PA sat forward so as not to miss a word.

“…to be fair, he did drop the wife’s name in, and said that she played the piano.”

Said behaviour feeling like the equivalent of Craig dropping on one knee in front of Katy and swearing his undying love, Nicky relaxed slightly. Until Liam went on.

“But her? Not a mention of her hubbie’s name, and as we were leaving, she was all girly whispers to the boss. I’m surprised she didn’t twirl her hair!”

“The hussy!”

“Aye…” Liam felt his conscience biting again; nuisance that it was. “Well, I couldn’t exactly hear what she said…” Penance done, he proceeded with renewed vigour. “But I tell you, she would eat that man up with a spoon if he gave her half a chance!”

Craig dropped his head in his hands despairingly. He knew that he should be annoyed with Liam for discussing his personal life, but he was far more annoyed with himself. He’d been attracted to Julia when he shouldn’t have been and there was no-one with whom he could even discuss his guilt.

Suddenly he realised that wasn’t true and pulled out his phone to call John. When the pathologist didn’t answer he left a message with Marcie, the labs’ PA, saying that they needed to speak and inviting himself for a coffee at the lab after work.

Job done, and feeling strong enough to face the barbarian horde, he strode out to his secretary’s desk issued an instruction.

“If you two have finished gossiping, I want everyone here for a briefing in half-an-hour. Get Andy and the others onscreen too.”

He walked on towards the exit with Liam calling after him.

“Where will you be if anyone asks, boss?”

“In the land of nobody’s bloody business but my own.”

Leaving the floor, Craig ran down ten flights of stairs and out into the fresh air for a stroll along the river.

Water was a wonderful thing. It washed away everything, even guilt.

****

The CCU.

“OK, everyone’s here.” Craig indicated the LED screen where Andy and his small team were gazing out at them. “Let’s go around quickly according to this list. Nicky’s already sent it to your pads.”

A flip of the board revealed a set of numbered issues and Craig tapped hard on the first.

“Boat and harbours. Gabriella, you were on those, weren’t you?”

Her blonde head shot up in the middle of the group.

“Yes, sir.”

“Update us with what you have.”

“It would be easier to show everyone, sir. Davy, could you open the file marked ‘Boats’ on the shared drive, please. And send it to everyone’s smartpads too.”

The southern detectives were disappeared temporarily in favour a graphic of a motorboat. It had its length and depth of hull listed and a third number written underneath.

“That third number is the water clearance required for the boat to not have its bottom ripped out on the rocks, and…”

While the Trafficking sergeant walked to the screen to explain, Craig seized the chance to snatch a mouthful of coffee.

“…these particular figures apply to the largest possible motorboat that could be safely carried by any trawler or yacht currently licensed in Ireland.”

Swallowing hastily, Craig halted her. “Where did you get the sizes of trawlers and yachts to work against?”

“I called all the agencies linked to boats here, north and south, and requested the largest models of each that they had registered. I didn’t ask for the owners’ names, just the models and measurements, so they didn’t object.”

“Good thinking, but be ready for them wanting warrants when you reach the name stage.”

“Yes, sir. Right, so given the measurements they sent me of the biggest trawlers and yachts,” she pointed back to the screen, “this is the largest possible motorboat that could be safely carried by the largest trawler. Next slide, please, Davy.” A similar looking boat appeared. “And this is the largest one that the largest yacht could carry. There’s little difference except this one’s about six inches smaller all round.”

She paused for a moment for questions and Andy’s disembodied voice came from the screen.

“Do you know how many that size are in Ireland? The trawlers and yachts, I mean.”

“Not yet. That will be my next step once we agree on the motorboat.”

She turned back to Craig. “Just on that, sir, there were a couple of things that stuck out. None of the people I spoke to were fazed by the concept of a motorboat being carried on a larger boat, which surprised me. In fact, one of them said it was common for fishermen to carry them now, especially on the west coast. Because of the rough seas there.”

Craig nodded. “We heard the same this afternoon from a coastguard, but I’ll cover that in a moment. What was the second thing?”

She motioned Davy to return to the first slide.

“That if this is the largest motorboat carried, then anything smaller than this would require less sea floor clearance…”

Aidan finished the thought for her.

“And could enter even shallower coves. Damn, chief, that means nearly any motorboat could have been used in our disposals.”

When Craig and the sergeant shook their heads simultaneously, Craig nodded her on.

“Not so. The motorboat’s size will also be dictated by its ability to carry five grown men. But I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves slightly.”

She signalled ‘Three’ to Davy and a new slide appeared, containing a short table.

“These are the clearances at our three disposal sites at low and high tide, and as you can see at low tide-”

Craig stopped her. “I thought the scooped floor of our chosen coves meant the tide had little effect.”

“It still has some, sir, and at low tide they’re all too low-”

Liam cut in. “Confirming again that the Vics must have been dumped at high tide, boss. Some of those low tide clearances are so small you couldn’t even land a Pedalo without ripping the ass out of it.”

Craig, who had been determined not to laugh at anything his deputy said in the briefing in revenge for his torment on their journey back, chuckled despite himself at the image of the six-foot-six Liam hunched over and pedalling like mad in a tiny craft.

“Thanks for that picture, Liam. OK, Gabriella, what do you say to that?”

“Liam isn’t wrong, sir. What I was going to say was, combining the shallowest possible tide clearance with motorboats capable of carrying five grown men narrows the suitable models down a lot, giving us a very short list of boats that could have been used by our killers. I don’t know yet if any of those models are actually on trawlers or yachts here, but…”

Craig signalled her to rewind. “Go back a bit, please. The only cove where five men might have been in the boat, and remember we’re assuming that two perps always accompanied the victims, was in Antrim. On the other occasions only two victims were found, so I suggest to be safe you also check motorboats capable of carrying a maximum of four.”

The sergeant considered the suggestion for a moment then nodded. “I’ll do it for both four and five, sir. But am I OK on the rest?”

He considered for a moment, then answered the question in a roundabout way. “Sadly, this afternoon we were called to view two more bodies in a cove near Castlerock.” He raised a hand to quiet the immediate murmuring. “I’ll come to that in a moment, but to answer your question, Gabriella, the Castlerock cove had a high tide clearance lower than the rest, so that’s the measurement you should use.”

He went on, “Returning to our new victims. Thanks to Davy organising satellite and helicopter searches the bodies were found earlier today. The victims were again two young males with spinal cord trauma identical to the others, and it looks like they’d been dead for around two months, which would fit our pattern. We’re have confirmation on that tomorrow.”

Andy’s voice came from the screen again. “Could someone show Castlerock on a map, chief?”

Craig signalled his lead analyst to oblige and a map of the whole island appeared with their now four disposal sites marked, prompting a whistle from Aidan.

“TOD and location say we’re definitely looking for the same perps, guv.”

“I agree. We’ll come back to that again in a moment. Staying with the boats for now, what are your next steps, Gabriella?”

“I’ll use the high tide clearance from Castlerock and see if it impacts the motorboat models for both four and five passengers, then see what that tells me about the corresponding trawlers and yachts. At that stage I’ll need to come back to you for warrants, sir. We’ll need one each for the agencies’ records; we won’t get the boat’s names never mind the owners’ otherwise. After that the home harbours should follow naturally and then we’ll need second warrants to search each large boat.”

Craig nodded approvingly. “Very sound.”

Ignoring a small sniff from the screen that said Mary was unimpressed with the praise being lavished on the newcomer, Craig scanned the board again.

“Next. Felix Sanders. The good news is that so far, although we can’t be certain until our Castlerock victims are ID-ed, no other young children appear to have been taken. And with no sign of a body to date we’ll continue to hope that Felix hasn’t been killed. But we need to locate him. Aidan, you were looking into that.”

The DCI was rearranging his long legs to get comfortable when Andy and Co suddenly reappeared onscreen, Andy scowling so openly at Mary that it confirmed Craig had been right about the constable’s resentful sniff. Thankfully, Aidan’s pre-report dance managed to divert most people and stop it being pointed out.

“OK, so Gabby and I went to see her boss in Trafficking, and gave him Felix Sanders’ photo and details, then I went up to SCA and did the same with the folk working on paedophile rings and kiddie-porn.”

He took a deep breath before continuing in a disgusted tone.

“Felix is a nice-looking kid. But even so, the general feeling was that ten-year-olds are hard to traffic lucratively for adoption and too young for useful labour in most countries, so Chief Supers White and Porteon agreed that he’s most likely ended up either with an age-preferential paedophile or in movies and images being shared on the Dark Web.”

Craig stared at the floor for a moment before responding, then he tried for a positive note.

“But they believe he’s alive, don’t they?”

The cynical DCI was taken aback by his optimism but grasped at the straw.

“Yes! Still alive, yes.”

Sometimes it paid to take the glass-half-full approach in life.

Craig expanded on his point.

“And if he’s still alive then there’s hope of finding him. I need you to make that your focus, Aidan. Make your presence felt in Trafficking and SCA and give them any help that you can to locate Felix. The Sanders family has already lost a son. Let’s not make it two.”

He didn’t voice what he would want to do to the boy’s abductors if they found him dead.

Instead, he changed the subject to something safe.

“And, just for the others, Bishop Pankhurst and the summer camp both came to nothing?”

The DCI nodded his blond head. “Yes, yes. No links to our case that I could find.”

“OK, good. Right, I’m aware that Andy and his team have things to do in Galway, so let’s take their report now before we deal with the rest of the list. You have the floor, Andy.”

Craig took a sip of his now-cold coffee and pulled a face at his PA, who went to make some fresh while he listened to Andy cover his team’s efforts in Galway City, culminating on their visit to the town planning office.

“Unfortunately, it’s a bank holiday, so it took us a while to access the planning records, but it turns out there are three town-houses in Felicia Court that have second exits to their garages leading onto the parallel street. Hersham Street-”

He was interrupted by a rude snort from Liam.

“Something you’d like to say, Liam?”

“Ask more like. Why didn’t you just walk down this Hersham Street and you’d have seen the garage doors, instead of faffing about calling the planners?”

The stunned silence that followed said the thought hadn’t entered any of the Galway team’s minds.

After a moment, Craig gave his deputy a ‘let it drop’ look and the report was picked up as if he hadn’t said a word.

“It’s the only logical explanation for how they disappeared, chief. I have a diagram if you’d like to see?”

“Put it onscreen, Andy.”

A grid map of the two streets appeared with the terrace of new town-houses marked.

“The three with dual garage access are marked in red, chief. We think the perp who enticed the brothers from the square walked them down Bunratty Street and into Felicia Court where the second perp was waiting. The Sanders were then dragged into one of the dual door garages, possibly injected with something so they didn’t shout, then loaded into a van or SUV and driven out through the other door to Hersham Street and out of town.”

“You’ve checked those garages?”

“Just a quick look in each but there was nothing obvious. The Guard who’s working with us, Della, is going over them all now with her CSIs.”

Aidan said what was on all their minds. “Slick operation. The perps were well prepared.”

“Yes, they were. They’d planned carefully and probably selected Nicholas long before that day. But…” Craig drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk before going on, “…not Felix… He was a problem that they hadn’t anticipated.”

Liam came back in. “Which meant they had to make a snap decision.”

“And snap decisions breed mistakes.”

“Leaving Felix behind would have risked them being ID-ed, so they had to take him, boss.”

“Not necessarily. They could have killed him and left him in the garage, so why didn’t they?”

Nicky’s horrified, “SIR!” was ignored.

“These are killers, remember, so why didn’t they kill Felix Sanders? Suggestions anyone?”

“Profit” hit the air first.

Craig looked around for the speaker and landed on Ash.

“Expand on that.”

The analyst shrugged, which threatened to set Nicky off again until Craig shot her a look.

“They could have sold the boy. Like Aidan said, he’s a cute looking kid, so marketable for both porn and paedos.”

Liam shook his head firmly. “Nope. I mean, that might be where he’s ended up now, but in the moment, you’d go for a choice with zero risk and lucrative or not there was no guarantee that a ten-year-old wouldn’t cause our perps massive aggro.”

“Right then, what’s your explanation for Felix not being killed in that garage?”

He knew what he was hoping his deputy’s response would be and when, “One of the perps” came back he allowed himself a smile.

“What about one of the perps?”

“I just think…that one of them might have pleaded for the kid’s life, boss.”

Craig nodded in agreement. “As do I. To me it’s the only explanation for Felix Sanders still being alive. But we’ll need something to support our feelings. I’ll give some thought on how to proceed.”

He turned to the screen again.

“Drop the diagram for a moment, Andy.” When the Galway team reappeared, Craig asked a question. “What do you know about the owners of those three garages?”

“Just that none of them have criminal records. Also, when we spoke on the phone no-one refused to let us look in their garage, so I doubt they were involved.”

Liam scoffed at him. “Or they already guessed we would want to search at some point and they’d cleaned up well.”

“Maybe. Della was cynical so she’s asking her station to dig deeper. I suppose I’m suspicious too, because I’m holding back the date of the Sanders abduction until I interview them personally, to stop invented alibis.”

“Good thinking.”

“There’s something more, chief. We’ve got one of the perps on camera with the Sanders boys and I’ll show you that clip in a second, but we also believe that a second perp, perhaps someone who couldn’t have approached the boys as successfully, was supervising things from an accountant’s office across the square. The place has some internal cameras linked to a security company, so we’re trying for whatever footage they might have now, but like I said before, everything’s slow here today because of the bank holiday.”

“Keep pushing, Andy, it’s important. If the second perp was close by it could have facilitated him racing round to the garage before the Sanders boys reached it. Even a hazy image of him would be a gain. Now, show us the important bits of your video.”

A short black and white clip appeared onscreen without commentary, but none was needed. It was obvious what was taking place.

The visibly excited Sanders brothers chatting in the computer game queue with a youth around the same age as Nicholas. A youth persuasive enough to separate them from the crowd and lead them to a dreadful fate.

Knowing the terrible outcome of the encounter, Craig felt too sad to watch for long.

“OK, stop. Clear the screen, please, Davy.”

As the clip disappeared, Craig focused on the facts.

“Tell us what you got from the video, Andy.”

“Perp One was of average height and weight, dark-haired and in his late teens, early twenties. There’s a clear shot of his face from another camera which Della’s running, but so far, no ID. Davy, could you have a go with it too?”

The analyst gave a quick salute.

“Thanks. You didn’t see the rest of the tape, chief, but he paused at the entrance to the square for almost a minute before moving forward. In fact, his body language said that he wanted to run away. Also, it was like he was deliberately trying to stay out of the other perp’s eyeline when he was standing there. Later, when he was talking to the Sanders, he kept glancing up nervously at a window on his right. That was what alerted us that there might have been a second perp. And while chatting to the brothers it… well, it looked as if he was actually enjoying himself-”

“In a manipulative way?”

“No. More like a kid who didn’t get out much. It was like he didn’t often have fun. And when it came time to leave, he really seemed loath to lead the brothers away.”

“You’re sure of that? Ryan? Mary? What did you think?”

Both agreed.

“So, we have a dominant perp supervising a submissive one to keep him on point. A young submissive who was at first nervous and hesitant, then enjoying himself chatting to someone his own age, and finally unhappy about luring them away.”

Liam pulled a face. “I almost feel sorry for the wee bugger.”

“Don’t. He’s a killer.”

Aidan shook his head. “Can we be sure of that, guv? He may only have helped lure the victims and dump their bodies, and what if he was coerced into doing even that? He might have been the one arguing not to kill Felix Sanders in that garage.”

Davy spoke for the first time since the start of the briefing. “That could fit with our triad theory, chief. I mean, if we’re looking at a psychopath who dominates his family members as well as his victims.”

Craig considered for a moment before conceding the point. “OK, I won’t rule our younger perp out as a quasi-victim, but to be safe we’re still looking for two killers. Let’s worry about mitigation once we’ve found them.”

Davy spoke again. “But what if the submissive could help with that? Finding them, I mean.”

“Expand on that.”

“OK. Let’s look at his behaviour a different way, chief. If Perp One has been dominated for years he would have been a very young kid when it started, which can make submissiveness bed in. Yet he was still brave enough to be reluctant about leading the boys away while he was being watched by Perp Two, which I can’t believe scored him brownie points.”

Craig nodded slowly. “You’re implying that he knew the cameras would catch his reluctance, so the police would have seen it once they, we started investigating.”

“Yep. And leaving aside the possibility that it was a cynical performance to line up mitigation, which it could have been, maybe, if he’s being forced to do things he doesn’t want to do, he could be looking for a way out. We can use that.”

“OK, we’ll come back to that in a moment, Davy, but for now let’s finish our original thread. Andy, keep going on that image from the accountants, and do we know anything yet about the route the kidnappers took out of town?”

Davy spoke again. “I’ve been working on that with Commander Sheridan and we think we’ve found something, chief.” He said, “Sorry, Andy, we’ll be losing you again. You can view the footage on your pads” and shunted the detectives offscreen in favour of a different video of the Galway City square.

Once again, they watched the Sanders brothers leave the square with their young abductor, then walk down the narrow Bunratty Street into the cameraless Felicia Court. When the screen changed again to show the parallel Hersham Street hosting the three garage exits, the analyst pointed something out.

“Bottom left corner of the screen.”

A few seconds of nothing and then a large, dark SUV drove past at just under the speed limit.

Davy froze the image.

“I managed to geolocate Nicholas Sanders’ mobile and it tracked him from the square into Felicia Court where the signal stopped at four-forty-two on the day of the abduction. This is the only vehicle that drove down Hersham Street in the sixty minutes after that-”

Ash cut in. “The perps must’ve found his phone and ripped out the SIM and battery.”

Craig nodded. “Probably. Andy, ask your Guard to search the garages specifically for that phone. Go on, Davy.”

“From the fact that no other vehicles of any size drove down Hersham in the hour after the phone died, it makes this,” he moved his pointer to the SUV, “worth a look.”

Craig nodded. Yes, it did.

“I’m assuming you’ve already done that.”

The senior analyst looked smug. “Yep. This angle’s not great but we found a camera further on that gave us the make and model. It’s a Ford Kuga.”

“Registration?”

“Fake. But we were able to tail it anyway. It headed south out of town.”

Liam smirked. “In the Cork direction by any chance?”

“That looked likely until we lost it at a place called Charleville. I left Commander Sheridan trying to pick it up again, so I’m hoping for good news.”

Craig nodded thoughtfully. “Put the map of Ireland onscreen again, Davy. OK, now mark the route the SUV followed before it disappeared.”

A thick green line led from Galway to Charleville. Moving due south.

“Right, I have a question. Were there any major road junctions before you lost the trail?”

“Not major, but there were plenty of turnoffs on that stretch.”

“Did any of them lead towards the south-west Cork coast?

Davy gazed at the map, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he did.

“There were lots of N roads leading in that direction.”

“But you didn’t see the SUV taking any of them?”

“No. It kept going south.”

“Staying inland until you lost it?”

“Yes. Although if you go far enough south, you’d hit the south Cork coast eventually.”

Liam read Craig’s mind. “You’re thinking that if it stopped somewhere inland that might be the perps’ secondary location, boss. And straight on from there would be an easy run down to the south coast where they moor their boat.”

Craig nodded sharply. “Or across to a south-west mooring. But there are a lot of ifs here, Liam. If this was the car carrying the brothers, if we can tail it to where it stops, and if we can find the real reg and owner, providing that it wasn’t nicked. There’s a lot more legwork needed to nail this down, Davy, so make this your priority.”

“Will do, chief. But I found something else as well. On the triad. Or the arson part anyway. I checked reports of the minor arsons and one newspaper article had an interview with the area fire chief. He mentioned ‘vandalism’ in it, which sounded to me like code for ‘kids mucking around’ so I played a hunch and gave him a call.”

He turned to Liam. “You were right. He’s only around fifty and still in the job. He was a bit reluctant to discuss local rumour until I explained that it could literally be life and death, then he said that at the time of the fires there was talk of them possibly being down to a group of kids. He didn’t have their names to hand but he promised to discuss it with his men and get back to me.”

Craig sat forward eagerly. “When?”

The analyst shrugged. “I’m hoping tomorrow so that I can ask the local Guards to check them out.”

“Don’t let that lie, Davy. If he hasn’t contacted you by lunchtime give him another call.”

“Will do. It might end up being nothing but I thought it was worth a punt.”

“It was. Right, let’s move on…” Craig turned to the next point on the board, then thought better of it and rose to his feet instead. “We’ve as much of this briefing ahead of us as behind, so now seems like a good time for a break. Fifteen minutes and back.”

He was heading to his office when John walked on to the floor.

Liam spotted him first.

“Hi, Doc. What are you doing here?”

“I was teaching at St Mary’s and saw Katy, which made me think of you.” He corrected himself. “Well, not you. Marc. Oh, you know what I mean.”

The deputy sniffed loudly. “Aye, I know fine rightly and I’m offended. I’m practically invisible around here.”

Even John, innocent that he was, wasn’t falling for that.

“Yes, all six-foot-six of you, you poor, overlooked little thing. Now, you can either huff or get me a cup of coffee, Liam, so which is it to be? For a coffee I’ll give you the most up-to-date lab findings on your case.”

Craig chuckled. “Bribery. I like it.” He poured the pathologist a coffee from Nicky’s percolator and poured another for himself. “I left a message for you earlier, John, did you get it?”

“I did, which was partly why I’m here as well. Can we speak now?”

Craig shook his head. “It will have to wait till after the briefing. We’re about halfway through.”

Ignoring Nicky’s clear curiosity about the message, he changed topic, and when the others started filtering back, he nodded the pathologist to a seat.

“OK, as you can all see, Doctor Winter has joined us and he’ll cover the lab findings later. But for now, let’s restart with SCA. Namely, what Ash discovered there. Aidan, feel free to chip in here as well.”

The group listened as the junior analyst outlined the fetish and even darker chatrooms that he’d delved into, and the work of Lily Granger, who had been viewing them full-time for months, something that prompted Nicky to give a loud tut.

Craig raised an eyebrow at her, something that she didn’t hesitate to point out.

“Don’t you go waggling your eyebrows at me! I’m entitled to my opinion.”

“Which is?”

“That young girls have no business reading the ramblings of perverts for months on end! I don’t know what the world’s coming to nowadays, I really don’t.”

They forgot sometimes that beneath her multi-coloured hair, eclectic fashion and varnished nails there beat the heart of an old fashioned, respectable Presbyterian girl.

Craig smiled. “You know that’s not something I can comment on, Nicky, but I appreciate your concern for Constable Granger.”

In other words, he agreed.

“However, she is a police officer, and would have joined SCA understanding the kind of things she might be expected to deal with.”

His carefully worded explanation was dismissed with a, “HUH!” that rendered further debate pointless so he waved Ash on.

“There’s an undercover officer inside the chatrooms too, chief.” He glanced hastily at the PA. “I think that one’s a bloke, Nicky, but I’m not sure. Anyway, they actually engage in conversations trying to draw out the group members.”

“AKA, the dirty beasts.”

The ‘dirty’ sounding more like ‘durr-ty’ told Craig that Liam was about to start his work, so he raised a hand to halt the whole exchange.

“Right, let’s all just accept that we find these chatrooms and or their members either disgusting or amusing, and some people present wish that police officers didn’t have to engage with them at all. OK? But the fact is that they, we, do have to engage if we hope to stop sexual abuses and assaults, so I want no more laughter, disapproval, comments or even pulled faces for the next twenty minutes unless I say that they’re allowed.”

Liam folded his arms defiantly. “I’ll be disapproving inside.”

“Well, since I’m not the thought police I can’t do anything about that, can I? But not a peep out of anyone. Understand?”

A few huffy sniffs were all that he got in return, so he took it as a win and nodded Ash on.

“The end result is that between Lily and the undercover we found an advert, well, several actually, which I’ll show you in a second, and Aidan and I are starting to pull together a calendar.”

When he displayed it onscreen, Craig saw the pattern instantly.

Aidan decided to add some narrative.

“It’s hard to tell from this, but as far as we know there were no adverts before abductions, guv, just afterwards.”

“Which means?”

“Maybe they weren’t that confident of abducting anyone? Or they were being cautious - wanting to wait until they definitely had a product to sell before placing an ad?”

Craig nodded in agreement, but Liam had a suggestion of his own.

“Or they didn’t have firm plans? If they’d had firm dates for the snatches then they could’ve started advertising before they’d actually taken the boys. To line up business like.”

Ryan’s voice came from the screen. “Like you pre-order a book, you mean?”

Mary joined in. “Writers do that to gauge interest in their book, and sometimes to whip up interest before its release.”

Both the sentiment and terminology made Nicky want to scream, but that was forbidden so she gave Craig the evil eye instead.

He ignored it and walked to the screen.

“Talk us through this calendar, Ash.”

“OK, so… before the very first advert appeared you can see an X marked a week previously. That’s the date of the Cork abduction.”

Gabby frowned.

“They held them for a week before advertising? Why?”

Craig gave a regretful sigh. “Because the perpetrators wanted to have their own fun with the victims before offering them elsewhere.”

Ash went on.

“The first advert was only placed in the hand fetish groups.”

“No other fetish groups? You’re sure?”

“Yep. It also offered body massage but it was only posted in the hand fetish rooms. Here it is.”

‘Would you enjoy an opportunity to massage hands or even a whole man for as long as you wished? Everything including oils can be provided. Visit Freedom.com. Online viewing will also be arranged.’

appeared onscreen.

Craig gave everyone a moment to read it before asking a question.

“Does anyone have calm comments on that?”

Liam did.

“By only advertising in hand groups they could be pretty sure of non-violent perps, boss, and even with a few weirdoes who liked using thumbscrews and whatnot, the word massage underlines that only the non-violent need apply.”

“Precisely.”

John raised a finger to speak. “But wouldn’t those non-violent fetishists have been put off by any signs that the perps had already ‘had their fun’ with the boys? I mean some of the scars I found at post-mortem were months old.”

Craig thought for a moment before responding.

“That’s a good point. Ash, how would it affect your scheduling if the victims had remained completely untouched by our perps until after that fetish advert had attracted customers?”

The junior analyst hemmed and hawed for so long that Davy stepped in.

“Maybe mental torture was the first step for our perps, chief? Breaking them down to not resist the fetishists when they arrived? So, the boys were abducted, held captive and mentally tortured but not touched before the massages.”

Aidan concurred. “That might work.”

But John wasn’t convinced, and he indicated the calendar to support his unease.

“I’ll need to discuss the age of the scars found on the earliest victims with their pathologists, and look at their abduction and disposal dates to see if a week-long purely mental torture phase was feasible.”

“Thanks. OK, let’s say it was after the fetish stage that the violence began. Aidan mentioned the stages so remind us again what those were, Ash.”

“Rape, torture, and interactive violence. The advert was reposted later to promote those.”

Craig stopped him. “Killing the victims wasn’t advertised?”

“Not that we can find, so we thought our perps might have reserved that pleasure for themselves.”

Nodding him to continue, Craig crossed his arms to help him think.

“Aidan pointed out that we can’t say how long each of those phases took. They may have overlapped and it’s possible that our perps squeezed in some of their jollies during and between those phases, but from abduction to the final advert was around six weeks, and disposal was around two weeks later. So, give or take two months captivity for each set of victims.”

It was a chilling thought.

Craig straightened up again. “OK, we can nail down the details on sequencing later, but for now just show us the version of the advert for the next phases.”

They appeared onscreen with only the relevant words altered from the original. All displayed the same website address and offered a choice of participation or viewing. Craig stared at the words for what felt like a long time, fighting to hide his shock. He’d seen a lot of dreadful stuff in his life but now they were really scraping the barrel.

When he was sure that he had a grip on his emotions, he spoke again.

“These different adverts were posted only in the corresponding chatrooms?”

Aidan shook his head. “Nope. All the adverts went to all of them.”

Craig gave a doleful nod. “Reckoning that the kind of scum interested in any of those behaviours wouldn’t have been sensitive.”

“Yup. Except that someone was, guv. Someone in the torture chatroom complained about rape being advertised in their space.”

A loud, “SHIT!” ripped across the squad-room, cutting through the gloomy atmosphere, and making several people laugh.

Craig didn’t have to look to know who’d said it, but he didn’t complain. The word seemed appropriate given the subject matter so instead he gave his deputy a smirk.

“Liam is clearly shocked.”

The deputy took the amnesty cheerfully. “Aye, shocked. That’s right. I’m a delicate flower really.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Yes, boss. I mean, no, boss.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “OK, I’m assuming someone is following up with that moderator?”

Ash nodded. “Lily said the undercover is.”

“And the website mentioned in the advert? Freedom-dot-com.”

“She’s checking that too because her computer has stronger firewalls than ours. Can’t have you buried under porn again, can we?”

“No, we can’t. OK, keep a close eye on all that, Ash, but for now we can say that the sequence for each set of victims was: abduct, hold for mental torture, advertise to fetish groups, perform and broadcast fetishes, then advertise for rape, torture and interactive violence and perform and broadcast each allowing for overlaps, with the murders obviously the final events before disposal.”

He turned to John. “Which you said occurred how long after death?”

“With the Antrim murders a matter of hours, so let’s assume that the others had similar timing until I check. Some of the bodies may not have been found quickly enough to confirm.”

“Right… Ash, swop the screen back to the fetish ad, please. And then you and Davy give me your thoughts on how to use this information.”

Ash deferred to his boss.

“OK…first, we need to look at the w…wording of the adverts for clues to our perp, chief, and I’m guessing it was probably the dominant who wrote them or at least dictated their content. While we’re doing that, SCA and Ash will look at the moderator complaint for any clues to the ID of the advert poster, and the website for traffic and logins, although since most people will have used private browsers that’s unlikely to give us IP addresses and names. Unless someone got careless.”

“We live in hope.”

“And Belfast. Then, saying there’s a portal on the website to pay for things, we might get lucky there.”

Ash cut in. “Most smart people will have paid in e-currency to cover their trail.”

“Agreed, but not everyone in the world’s smart. Then the advert mentions contact, chief, so there must also be a messaging facility on the website, plus the people who were going to travel had to get details of where to go, so Ash, work with Lily on all that. Last, when we get closer to finding the perps’ secondary location, we might be able to detect a live stream.”

Craig recoiled physically and his deputy spotted it right away.

“They’ll only be streaming if they take more victims, son, which we’re all hoping won’t happen.”

And there it was. The dreadful Catch-22 of murder investigations. Often the best hope of catching a serial killer was when they took their next prey.

Craig nodded. “But since serials don’t stop unless they’re made to through detention or death, another abduction is likely.”

Aidan cut in. “If the perps stick to their cycle there are three-to-four-weeks between disposal and the next abduction, boss, so we have that time.”

“If they stick to their cycle. Right, that all sounds good, Davy. Ash, you and Lily filter your findings through Davy in real time so we always have them to hand. Right, let’s move on to the lab findings and finish with the rose oil. John?”

The pathologist’s gaze was still on the screen, scouring the advertisement for clues to its author. He responded to Craig’s invitation by reading it aloud.

“Would you enjoy an opportunity to massage hands or even a whole man for as long as you wished? Everything including oils can be provided. Visit Freedom.com. Online viewing will also be arranged.”

Liam responded first. “OK, Doc, I’ll bite. What do you see?”

“Clues.” The medic turned to Davy. “Don’t you?”

Craig drew his attention back with a question.

“Details?”

“Well, look at the syntax, Marc. ‘Would you enjoy’ and ‘As long as you wished?’ That’s the language of someone either formally educated to third level or who has educated themselves. And it’s slightly old-fashioned in its phrasing, so perhaps someone who studied English or the Classics? Then consider the lack of personal pronouns. Not a single ‘I’ or ‘we.’ That shouts male author. Women use more pronouns in their speech and writing than men. Also, the wording is very definite. Viewing will. No equivocation at all. Again male.”

Andy’s voice came from the screen. “So, you’re agreeing with Davy that the dominant perp wrote this, Doc?”

“No, actually. There’s none of the aggression or violence here that I would expect of a dominant. The dominant may have said what he needed, but if there is a submissive perpetrator here then perhaps he tries to find ways to be useful, and possibly even to keep himself from becoming a future victim. He could have offered to write the ad for the dominant’s approval.”

Davy nodded. “Making the submissive the educated one of the pair.”

“Or both are. We can’t say definitively yet.”

Craig nodded in approval. “Let’s follow that through, John.”

He flipped the board and lifted a marker.

“Let’s return to Davy’s earlier point about reaching out to our submissive. If he and Andy are right and our submissive perp is looking for a way out, how do we offer it to him?”

There were frowns of concentration but near silence, then Ash glanced surreptitiously at his boss and Davy nodded back.

Craig spotted the exchange and threw Davy the marker.

“Ash, clear the screen so we can see everyone. Then both of you can dazzle us with your Generation Y brains.”

Davy smirked at the introduction. “OK, but just so you know, everything I say will be a guess.”

His junior qualified the words. “An educated one.”

“Fair enough. A guess based on the footage from the square and what Doctor Winter’s just said about the wording of the ad, which I, we agree with, chief.”

“I love guesses. But hurry up.”

Underlining his words with a brisk wave, the senior analyst began scribbling at speed. When he stood back to show his work, they saw an equation:

Young + dominated since childhood + educated/self-educated = a loner with good prose + computer literacy.

Liam picked it up. “You’re saying that the kid we saw in the square was probably the person who posted the adverts?”

“And designed the website. Yes. Ash?”

The junior analyst seized his cue eagerly. “Yeh. Think about it. Let’s say this kid’s been oppressed for years, but he’s bright and educated, either by himself or schooling. He’s unlikely to have socialised much, judging by how he interacted with the Sanders brothers. Probably wasn’t allowed to by the dominant. So, he spends a lot of time alone. How does he fill that time?”

A cynical, “Killing” came from the screen and without looking the analyst knew it was Mary and responded in kind.

“Even killers don’t kill all the time.”

Craig stepped in before blood got spilt.

“You’re saying that the submissive is a loner who spends any spare time he gets on the Net.”

“Maybe not exclusively. Like the Doc said, his English is really good, so maybe he reads a lot too. But yeh, he’ll be on the Net. But the Net everywhere, not just the DW. He probably surfs, plays games, streams music and whatever.”

“Do you agree, Davy?”

The senior analyst nodded.

“I agree generally, but in particular because the internet may be his only safe space, especially if he lives with the dominant. He’ll literally rule the roost and make dissent of any form dangerous. The submissive couldn’t hide physically without angering the dominant but he could hide inside the Net, using the argument that it’s helping him improve his skills for their ‘business’.”

When no-one disagreed, he went on.

“Let’s say he wrote the adverts, based on what the dominant wanted but phrased in his prose, and that he also designed the website Lily’s looking at now. That means the submissive controls that side of things-”

Aidan cut in. “Completely? Or do you think the dominant also goes online?”

The analyst chewed his lip for a moment before replying. “I would say completely, but again this is all just a guess. If the dominant does go online, it’s probably only to show that he can and that ultimately, he’s the one in control of everything. Just a show of power, or maybe to watch porn-”

Ash cut in. “My bet is he only gets to see the bits of the website that the submissive shows him. I doubt he’s got a clue about how it all works.”

Davy nodded. “I agree.”

Craig interrupted the exchange. “A website must have a hosting platform and a domain name, mustn’t it? How were those paid for? They could give us a name.”

Ash shook his head. “Lily’s already checked those out. They were purchased with pre-paid Visas. Different ones.”

Damn.

Andy called out from the screen. “OK, so if the submissive has control of the internet, why hasn’t he contacted the cops behind the dominant’s back?”

Liam answered first. “Fear. Years of conditioning can make people so afraid that it paralyses them. Just look at the number of women who are terrified to leave the house even when they know their violent husband will be at work all day. They’re convinced that he’ll find out somehow and kill them.”

Craig nodded. “Coercive control can be powerful. OK, so if our submissive hasn’t blown the whistle because he’s terrified, how can we help him?”

Davy thought he knew.

“Fear may have stopped him from initiating contact, chief, but if we do then it might be the push he needs.”

“You’re suggesting that we reply to one of the adverts?”

The analysts shook their head simultaneously.

“There w…won’t be a new ad for weeks, chief, and anyway, we don’t need to do that when we can embed a virus in Freedom-dot-com instead. A Trojan Horse to slow it down so badly that it freezes. When he finds the virus and tries to remove it, we can arrange so it activates a message from us.”

Ash nodded eagerly. “And we’d format the virus so that only someone very computer literate could find it. Design-your-own-website literate. That way there’ll be no risk of the dominant stumbling on it by accident.”

Craig pondered the suggestion, aware that everyone else, even Liam who probably thought a Trojan Horse virus looked like My Little Pony, was already nodding their heads.

But he was the sad sack burdened with considering every possible outcome of his squad’s actions, and that had to include the worst.

“I hate to rain on the parade, but if the dominant finds the virus and realises what’s happening, he could kill the submissive, and perhaps even speed up his killing spree. Those deaths would be on us. And don’t just tell me that he won’t find it, outline safeguards and contingencies for me, please.”

The analysts huddled for a moment, throwing terminology back and forth that no-one else but Mary understood.

Finally, they turned together to face the group and Ash spoke first.

“OK, here’s what we can do. We can lock the virus for access and removal only by the website designer. Their unique signature will be encoded somewhere on the site, so I’ll find it and fingerprint the Trojan with it.”

Davy took over.

“Which means that even if the dominant is literate enough to explore the website’s admin properties, which I really doubt, and find the Trojan that’s slowing it, which again I doubt, they wouldn’t be able to open, explore or remove it. That means our message won’t be revealed to anyone but the website designer.”

Seeing Craig about to object again, he added hastily, “Also, we’ll arrange for the message to disappear in a short time. Once it’s gone it’ll be completely untraceable.”

“How short a time? Bearing in mind that the submissive needs time to read it and react.”

“I’ll decide for sure once you’ve produced its content, chief. It needs to be short for the sake of computer logistics but long enough to say what you need to get across – our offer and how to take it up. Give some thought to that wording while we set everything up. And we’ll do everything up in SCA, don’t worry.”

Craig gazed at the floor for a moment, considering, then he gave the nod.

“OK. We’ll do it. Davy, give me a maximum number of characters the message can contain and Liam and I will decide on wording. If we can pull this off… well… And even if we can’t, brilliant work, you two. I mean it.”

Aidan decided that it was time to be the voice of doom.

“Just one thing, guv. If the submissive isn’t as submissive as we think and he’s actually a happy collaborator in the killings, we’ll have tipped them both off that we’re on their trail. They could burn their op and disappear overseas to start again.”

He ignored the inevitable glares and waited for Craig’s response.

Sorry to be the Grim Reaper as he was, it was something that they had to think about.

Craig agreed.

“Aidan’s right. It’s a possibility. So, we’ll plan the Trojan but we continue exploring our other leads too. Let’s get as close to these bastards as we can before we offer the submissive a lifeline. If he takes it, fine, we’ll catch them that way. But I want us almost knocking at their door anyway, in case they decide to run.”

He glanced around quickly. “Everyone good with that?”

Not waiting for replies, he added a brisk, “Excellent. Then that’s what we’ll do,” and turned back to their guest.

“That’s your cue, John.”

The medic allowed himself a smile as he did. No matter how often he saw the murder team in action he was always impressed.

“Thanks. Well… we now have definitive causes of death for the Antrim victims. They’d all been paralysed by spinal cord injury but they were actually killed by lethal injections. In two an opiate called Fentanyl was used, which is actually a quick and fairly peaceful death, but in the case of the third boy, Ross McCabe, he was injected with Carbolic Acid, also known as Phenol, which is an extremely painful way to go and often doesn’t kill right away.”

Ryan spoke from the screen. “He must have angered one of the perps.”

“Most likely and I’ll come to that in a moment, but Des and I also looked further into Carbolic Acid as a choice of murder weapon and it gave us an idea. Phenol has been used very rarely throughout history. The major time was during World War Two when it was used by the Nazis in executions.”

“Frick me, not those bastards again, Doc! Will they never die?”

“Sadly, some people still have a macabre fascination with the Nazi movement, Liam. In fact, with evil in general. Look at the number of true crime documentaries on streaming services today. Anyway, my point is that Phenol’s use may be telling us something about your killers. Don’t be surprised if you find Nazi memorabilia where you catch them, and it might be an idea to check out shops and subscriptions to magazines that sell the stuff.”

Davy made a note.

“On the lab results. You know that we found two samples of DNA on the Antrim victims. One from some skin trapped beneath Nicholas Sanders’ nails, which we believe was from him gouging an attacker, and the other on the fist of Ross McCabe, who we believe put up a fight. Neither sample is showing on the criminal or other databases, not even the relationship ones Des said to tell you, but the first DNA has been fully sequenced now.”

Craig interrupted. “Des said that it belonged to a Caucasian male with dark hair, dark eyes and a gene for that may give him a hint of red in his beard if he has one.”

Mary offered, “The lad who took the Sanders brothers from the square had dark hair and dark eyes. No beard though.”

Craig shook his head. “Don’t get too excited. I can’t see our killer being careless enough to leave his DNA under a victims’ nails. The second a psychopath had realised they’d been scratched; they would have scrubbed the boy’s hands clean. And they would have felt the scratch, wouldn’t they, John?”

“Yes. There was quite a chunk of skin beneath the boy’s nails, so it would have been hard to miss.”

“So, you’re saying the DNA won’t belong to one of our perps, boss?”

“Not the dominant, but the submissive might be a different thing, and if the DNA does belong to the submissive that raises a very interesting question. Why would he have left it beneath the nails to be found?”

“Because he wanted it found? A cry for help?”

Craig gave a slow smile and waved John on with his report.

“OK. Des was also looking into illness genetics on that sample and he’s found something. Whoever got gouged by Nicholas Sanders carries the Celtic Gene.”

Liam looked at him quizzically. “Surely most of Ireland carries that, Doc?”

The question made the pathologist chuckle. “I don’t mean the gene that makes us Irish, Liam. And before anyone asks, there isn’t a single gene for that by the way. We’re a mixture of Celt, Spanish, Viking, Norman, and whatnot. No, the Celtic Gene is the name of a specific gene because the disease that it causes is more common here. It’s called haemochromatosis, and people with the condition can’t clear their bodies properly of iron so it builds up and can be harmful.”

“How is it treated, John?”

“By drawing blood, strangely enough. It removes the iron.”

“So, they’ll be on the blood donor register?”

“Unlikely. The blood is removed as hospital therapy and disposed of, so it’s worth you checking Irish hospitals for haemochromatosis sufferers. Bear in mind that there are a lot of dark-haired, dark-eyed men in Ireland, so whether the DNA’s owner is your submissive or just some creep who answered an advert we can’t yet know, but it’s something. Oh, and people are often completely unaware they have haemochromatosis until they get ill.”

Ash raised a finger. “I’ll check all that, Doc.”

Liam was still on the gene. “It couldn’t belong to one of the other Antrim Vics? The perps may have made them fight each other.”

The medic shook his head firmly. “No. Des checked all their blood first thing. This DNA belongs to a stranger.”

“Oh, aye. I recall him saying that now.”

“OK. Moving on to the DNA found on Ross McCabe’s fists, initial sequencing shows that’s completely different. Again male, but this time of East Asian origin. This DNA came from blood, so Ross McCabe must have punched the man hard enough to break his skin.”

Liam gave a small cheer. “Good for him. He fought hard for his life.”

Craig smiled weakly. Fight the lad may have done but he was still dead.

“This second man being East Asian doesn’t preclude him coming from Ireland, John, but it makes it less likely given the island’s demography. This could be someone who answered an advert and travelled a distance to take part.”

“Exactly. But probably not all the way from Asia. Perhaps he lives in GB somewhere.”

“Ash, I’m not sure how far you’ll get but check on that as well, please.”

“OK…what else do I have for you?”

The medic tapped his chin, trying to recall his final point.

“Ah, yes… the rose oil. Pure, foreign, and likely to be very expensive. Des looked into imports-”

Davy cut in. “I have a customs’ search running too, but I haven’t checked it yet, chief. I got busy at the ASU.”

“Do that now, please, while John continues.”

“Well, all I was going to say is Des managed to refine the roses’ origins somehow. Don’t ask me the details but he said they came from a species called Rosa Centifolia, most commonly found in Morocco and Egypt-”

A shout of, “Morocco!” from Davy cut him off.

Craig nodded him on.

“Irish Customs and Excise say a rare rose oil was imported from Morocco over the last year and they’re running the importers’ names now.”

John applauded him. “Excellent. Given that the rose oil was on the hands of the boys when we found them, it was most likely applied by your perpetrators.”

“They might have supplied it to the perves too, boss. Remember the ad said oils could be provided.”

“True, but I’d imagine this particular oil is too expensive to dole out, Liam, plus most fetishists would have wanted to use their own. If we’re lucky this is another lead to our perps. Anything more, John?”

“Just to say that I’ve just received the PM files for the four southern victims so I’ll go through them tonight. I’ve also volunteered to post-mortem your two new Castlerock victims, so I’m heading up there tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks for that, although I’m not sure how much you’ll find. They looked in bad shape.”

“You saw them?”

“We did. I’ll fill you in later.”

Craig glanced at the clock. Five-fifteen.

“OK, does anyone have anything more to add?”

When there were only “No” s and shaking heads, he rose to his feet.

“We’re done then. Good work, everyone. Go home and come back fresh tomorrow. I’m convinced we’ll have the back of this case broken by the end of the day. John, would you join me in my office?”

Liam’s head shot up. “Me too, boss?”

“No, you need to spend the evening doing penance for making my life hell on that car ride.”

“Ach, get away with you! I wasn’t that bad. You should’ve grown up in my family, then you’d really know about being slagged to hell.”

Liam was at the exit before he’d finished his sentence; it was the first time he would get home before six in months so he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

No-one else hesitated to obey Craig’s edict either, and in under a minute the squad-room had cleared completely.

“It’s peaceful here without them, isn’t it.”

Craig smirked. “In a Marie Celeste without its crew kind of way.”

The pathologist laughed then changed the subject.

“Marcie said you sounded like you had something important to talk about, Marc.”

“I have, but I’ve decided that it would be easier over a drink.”

“Dutch courage it is then.”

“Good. But not at The James, there’s every chance Aidan and Ash are there already and I don’t want them to hear. How about that new wine bar in town?”

Twenty minutes later they were nursing glasses of Merlot under soft lighting and Craig was taking the long way around to the reason for his call.

Finally, the pathologist had had enough and called his bluff.

“Are you going to dance around the subject for an hour or just admit that seeing Julia again gave a kick to your pulse, Marc?”

Craig’s eyes widened. “I didn’t… I mean, what would make you say that?!” He shook his head vehemently. “I would never… Katy would be…”

The medic allowed him to ramble for another few seconds, wondering whether he would let something juicy drop, but when all he heard was middle-aged angst he got bored and sighed heavily.

“I remember when we felt guilty about far more exciting things than old flames.”

Craig was indignant. “I didn’t say that I was feeling guilty about anything!”

John gave a sceptical snort. “Come off it, man, it’s oozing out of you! Your mother’s Catholicism must’ve finally taken hold if you’re feeling guilty for just fancying Julia.”

The ridiculousness of the truth made Craig burst out laughing. That was exactly what he’d been doing for the previous few hours; feeling guilty just for being attracted to an old flame, even though he’d taken it no further.

The pathologist rolled his eyes.

“For goodness’ sake, Marc, you mean you didn’t even do anything?! You could at least have the decency to commit a sin before you call me looking for absolution. Couldn’t you at least invent a misdemeanour? I need something to spice up my dull life.”

“You can’t mean that.”

The medic gazed wistfully into the distance for a moment then shook his head.

“I can, but no, I don’t. Not in this case anyway. Not the part about you actually committing a sin. I like Katy, and I definitely wouldn’t like you if you did the dirty on her, but the bit about inventing something, yes, I absolutely meant that. I used to live vicariously through your adventures at university, Marc, all the women and punch-ups, but now you’re such a bloody goody-two-shoes I have to read books to get my thrills. So, make something up immediately!”

Craig burst out laughing again.

“I can’t. Sorry to disappoint you. Maybe I should take to drugs, drink, and casual sex just to stop you getting bored, John.”

“Yes, well, you should be sorry.” The pathologist sat forward confidingly. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you giving in to temptation with Julia, is there?”

Craig took a mouthful of red wine and swallowed it before answering.

“Make up your mind, John! Do it and you’ll hate me, don’t do it and you’ll be bored! This isn’t something to joke about. Julia still affects me and that’s dangerous. But the biggest problem is… God, how do I say this without coming across as big-headed?”

“You can’t, so just tell me.”

“Well, the thing is… I… I think she might want to… do something I mean.”

The medic’s eyes lit up. “Tell me why you think that, exactly, while I imagine that we’re both twenty again.”

Craig chuckled. “You’re worse than Liam! He didn’t shut up about it the whole way back from Castlerock.”

“I’m shocked,” came back in a voice that said the pathologist was anything but.

“So, go on then, Casanova, tell me why you think Julia found you irresistible.”

“Funny, very funny. Well… I mean…” Craig could feel his face getting hot. “It… I suppose it was her demeanour initially… and the way she didn’t mention her husband’s name once in the conversation.”

“I mentioned Katy,” was added hastily.

“Good boy. And?”

“Well, when I showed her a photo of Luca, she got a strange look in her eyes. Almost sad.”

John nodded decisively and sat back. “She was imagining how Luca could have been yours and hers.”

“No!”

“Yes. Did she say anything about him?”

“That he looked like a real little Italian boy.”

“A real little Italian boy… just as she imagines you looked when you were a kid. I rest my case, M’Lud.”

Craig stared at him sceptically.

“Where do you get all this rubbish from?”

“I told you. I read a lot of books. Romance novels.”

“Seriously?”

“No, of course not! I just know people, Marc. Alive or dead, they’ve been my job for twenty-five years, so I understand what makes them tick.” He frowned slightly. “Unless they’re Natalie of course and then I haven’t got a fricking clue. Anyway… go on with your story.”

“Well, as I got up to pay the lunch bill, Julia leant towards me and almost whispered, ‘Will you keep me up-to-date, Marc?’.”

John’s mouth rounded and, “Oooh…” emerged.

“Yes. I don’t think Liam heard the actual words but he read her body language.”

“Hence the fierce slagging that you got on the journey back. Well, will you?”

Craig recoiled in alarm. “Will I what?!”

“Keep your hair on, man! I only meant will you keep her up-to-date on the case?”

He answered his own question before Craig could respond.

“No, you won’t, because you really don’t trust yourself, do you. You’ll get Liam to do it instead. Good. But are you really that attracted to her, Marc?”

It took another mouthful of wine before he got an answer and then it was tinged with despair.

“Yes. I am.” Suddenly, horror took over. “Damn, I am! I am that attracted to her! What the hell am I going to do, John?”

Suddenly serious, the pathologist scowled at his best friend.

“You’re going to avoid her like the plague, that’s what you’re going to do, Marc, or you’ll risk two marriages. It sounds like Julia wouldn’t mind risking hers but I honestly don’t believe that you want what you have with Katy to end. Do you?”

“God no!”

“Well then, ask yourself three questions. Could you live with the guilt of having an affair? Would Katy fail to spot it if you had one? And would she stay with you if she found out?”

Craig knew the answers instantly; No, no, and no. His wife was a very smart woman who would spot the clues in a heartbeat, a New York heartbeat at that. She was also very soft and would be so hurt that even if she wanted to forgive him her feelings would never be the same.

“Katy would know instantly and she would leave me.”

Or his own guilty feelings would make him fess up.

John nodded decisively.

“Then you know all you need to know. Get someone else to brief Julia on the case and stay a million miles away. But if you do think that you’re about to slip, call me or Liam and we’ll lock you up. Liam in a cell probably, but just so you know, I have a lot of empty mortuary drawers available and no-one would ever hear you scream.”

Craig smirked. He knew every side that there was to John Winter and there was one just determined enough to follow through on that threat.

“Also, book a weekend away for you and Katy when this case is finished. You can leave Luca with us or your parents, so you’ve no excuse.”

The medic drained his wine glass before issuing a final warning.

“You’re married to a beautiful, good-hearted, and extremely tolerant woman who puts up with all your crap, Marc, so don’t fuck it up. DO. NOT.”

Craig’s outward response was a heartfelt nod, but inside he felt afraid.

Chapter Nine

Galway City. Tuesday, 9 a.m.

The bank holiday had impacted more than the Belfast detectives had expected, with everyone, including Garda forensics, still on a go-slow, their lab only now processing the CSIs’ samples gathered from the mews garage the evening before.

And it was garage singular that the CSIs had investigated fully in the end, because, after sweeping the three and running checks on their owners, all had been ruled out as criminals volunteering their homes for killers to use. Two had been away visiting friends on the day of the abduction, and the third, an elderly man who lived alone, had removed his hearing aid, dozed off two floors above and hadn’t heard a thing.

When the pensioner had emerged days later to drive to the supermarket, he had discovered the prized SUV that he’d hand washed every Sunday gone. A Garda file stating that his garage lock had been picked backed up the story, with photos that showed a neater break-in than any Ryan had ever seen and he’d once policed an area renowned for its burglaries.

The garage was definitely their ‘central, private location’. Nicholas Sanders’ mobile was found broken and still lying in a corner; the elderly homeowner, who hadn’t replaced his car, not venturing in now to sweep.

The phone’s destruction supported Davy’s location efforts in both time and place. They could only hope that prints on it would give them a name for one of their perpetrators, although no-one was holding their breath on that.

Now, the Belfast coppers were back inside the garage, scouring its floor, walls, and ceiling for anything that the CSIs might have missed, desperate for clues but even more desperate to keep busy while they waited for, hopefully good, forensic news.

A sudden noise made Andy turn towards the garage’s open Felicia Court entrance, to see a liveried police car pulling up outside. Della Conroy’s scowl as she clambered out told him right away that the mobile phone had yielded no clues.

“The printing led nowhere?”

The Guard shook her head then removed her uniform hat, raking her hair back with brutality, as if each brown strand of it was to blame for her mood.

“Not a single print, so the killers must have worn gloves. And we don’t even have a private alarm company to give us photos here.”

The DCI hid his disappointment behind a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry. We’ve found the garage, we have the timing from when the phone died, and we’ve confirmed that a navy Ford Kuga was the abduction vehicle. Our analysts can work wonders with that.”

He walked past her out to the mews, gazing up at a sunny sky that didn’t match his mood.

“How far is Nugent’s alarm company? They said we could see the office footage today.”

“Just across town. We can take my car.”

Twenty minutes later the officers were viewing images on a full-wall screen. Its size made Ryan curious.

“Why so big?”

The tech projecting the footage responded without looking round.

“Insurance companies are picky about paying out. This shows details that they can’t argue with.”

Ryan thought, but didn’t say, that perhaps Davy should have one the same size at the ranch. The details of a killer had to be more important than those worth a few quid.

The group watched as Nugent’s office images appeared and disappeared rhythmically, marvelling that, despite the spread of angles covered by the hidden cameras, the only views of their dominant perp so far were the top of his head, shoulders and back, plus a single view of his full left side. Still, they knew they were lucky any footage had been kept since February, so no-one was about to bitch.

What they could see showed that the dominant was tall, strongly muscled, somewhere in his late twenties, early thirties, with thick dark hair and a full, matching beard, but sadly they didn’t have a single shot of his face.

Then a loud, “THERE! Stop the tape!” cut the air, and Andy turned to see Mary jabbing a finger towards the wall. Before he could ask her what she’d noticed, the constable sprinted across to the computer tech and repeated her jabbing on his PC.

He let her run with it, and between jabbing and ordering Mary eventually got the footage that she wanted and beckoned everyone to the wall-screen to see.

“OK, the detail on this is blurry because it’s enlarged too much, but,” the finger moved again, “look there.”

She was indicating an internal window in John Nugent’s office; but although everyone was looking only Della spotted what Mary was excited by.

“It’s his reflection!”

Mary nodded smugly. “Yep. He was so busy trying to keep his back to the cameras that he forgot about reflecting surfaces in the room!”

She turned back to the tech. “Can you isolate that? If not, we have analysts you can send it to.”

When professional pride made the man shoot her a ‘just you wait’ squint, Andy decided to leave him to his wizardry and move everyone to the opposite side of the room.

“Good catch, Mary. Even if old Blackbeard here hasn’t got a record, he’s bound to have a passport or license of some sort.”

The nickname made Ryan smirk. “Blackbeard. I like it. It works better than calling him ‘The Dominant’.”

“Glad you’re pleased. OK, as soon as we get a clear image of his face, send it to Davy to run.”

As Davy’s labour was being offered in Galway, he was returning to the office after meeting Theo Sheridan about the SUV to start work on other things. His call to the Cork fire chief had produced the names of seven local youngsters who rumour had linked with the arsons. He set his computers to run them while he moved on to imports of the rose scented oil.

But his mind was still on the car as he did so, so when Nicky transferred a call from Andy, he was hopeful that it would be about that.

“Hi, Andy. What’s the story on the car and garage?”

Taken aback because his mind was now on bearded killers, the DCI was caught off guard.

“What?”

“The SUV. Did it come from one of the three garages? And what about Nicholas Sanders’ mobile? Any joy there?”

“Sorry, Davy. I was thinking about something else completely. Yes, to the car. You were absolutely right. A navy SUV was stolen from one of the mews’ garages and Nicholas Sanders’ phone was found still there in a corner, broken apart as predicted. But Della’s just been told there were no prints on it so we think the perps must have gloved up.”

“Damn. But the SUV was definitely dark?”

“Yes. I’ll send through its reg and other details.” As he said it, Ryan gave a thumbs-up and began tapping on his smartpad. “Ryan’s emailing those to you now.”

The analyst watched his screen impatiently for the info and kept talking as he did. “What about the homeowners? Clean?”

“Yes, all of them. Two were away that day and the car was stolen from the third garage. Its owner is quite elderly and hard of hearing so he didn’t hear the lock being picked or anything else.”

“OK, thanks. Tell Ryan his email’s just come through. Bye.”

“Hang on, Davy. I called you because we have something even better than the car. We’ve got an image of the dominant perp from the accountant’s office. He tried to swerve the cameras but Mary spotted his reflection in some internal glass.”

Davy whistled, impressed. “Cool. Send it through.”

“We will as soon as the tech here has cleaned it up. Run it against every possible database, will you.”

The analyst frowned. “I can run it in the UK, no problem, but I’ll need permission to access things like Irish passports and he most likely comes from the south.”

“Don’t worry about that, Della will call you to liaise. Just make a start on it.”

As the called ended, Davy forwarded the SUV’s details to Theo Sheridan. Just at that moment, his junior walked on to the floor and he beckoned him across.

“How’s everything going upstairs, Ash?”

The junior analyst swept off his hat of the day, a Stetson, threw it on his desk and flung himself into a chair before responding.

“The perp’s website is slick. No muss no fuss. I would show you but...”

“We’d get porn pop-ups. I know. I might come up and look later.”

“You should. The customer interface is sweet. Very professional looking and no sign of what it’s really selling until you pass through several levels. If you didn’t know you would never ask. Whoever created it was a skilled operator.”

Davy pushed his chair back and turned to face him.

“What have they put as its fake purpose?”

Ash smirked. “You’re gonna love it.”

“Amaze me.”

“It’s a fish wholesaler. The bastards are only pretending to sell fish online!”

Nicky did a one-eighty.

“What did you say?”

“That the website our perps set up to sell boys is using a fish wholesaler as its front. Talk about Freudian.”

The PA looked revolted, but Davy put on his logical head.

“This supports the chief’s theory of them being fishermen.”

“That’s exactly what I thought. The submissive reached for the nearest familiar thing to disguise their website, not realising how much he would be giving away when he did.”

Or else… realising it one hundred percent.

“OK, details about the website, Ash. You found a messaging service and a payment portal?”

“Yes, and yes.” His face fell. “The bad news, but I’ll need to check further to be sure, is I don’t think there’s the facility to pay in anything but cryptocurrency and we haven’t a hope in hell of tracing anyone from that. But good news, the messaging interface looks hackable so I’m heading back upstairs in a bit to have a go.”

“And you’ll dig into the admin side, creator data, logins, and the rest?”

The junior analyst rolled his eyes. “Are you going to teach me how to suck eggs next?”

“Just checking. OK, good. Once we have all that we can think about the Trojan.”

Just then Davy’s left-hand computer pinged with another email. He was just about to open it when his junior rose to leave.

“Hang on a minute, Ash. If I’m right this will interest you.”

Davy clicked the mail open and they watched together as a man’s bearded face appeared; the alarm company tech had done a great job of sharpening up the window reflection.

Along with the image were the other photo-angles that Nugent’s CCTV had caught of their perp, and as the analysts were hunching over to examine them, Nicky appeared at Davy’s side.

“Is that one of our killers?”

The analyst nodded. “The dominant.” He gazed at the images a moment longer then decided that three minds were better than two and projected them to the screen.

“Opinions on him? Nicky, you first. Tell me why you think it too, please.”

Her response was unhesitating.

“He’s tall. That side view shows he has long legs. Broad too. His upper back looks as wide as a football field. I’d say he’s probably very strong as well. I mean, just look at his shoulders and the thick muscles in his left forearm. And his face… well handsome, I suppose, but in an evil way. Dark and macho. He looks mature and rugged, like he’s had an outdoor life.”

“That’s amazing, Nicky. Thanks. Ash, anything to add?”

“Yeh. Late twenties at least but looking older, and I’d say he’s well over six foot, but I can sim him on the computer to check. Also, if you can tell personality from a still then I’d say his is intimidating.”

Nicky chimed in again. “Yes, yes. Aggressive. That’s an aggressive man. Not the sort you would want to mess with.”

Davy nodded; he couldn’t have put it better himself. He imagined their young abductees and shuddered; they’d just been kids in comparison to this brute.

“We think this is the man who supervised while the younger perp lured the Sanders brothers away, Nicky. These images come from an accountant’s office across the square.”

Nicky nodded sadly. “You have to find out his name, Davy. He needs to be locked up before he kills more boys.”

“Whose name, lassie?” called out and the trio turned to see Liam and Craig walking on to the floor.

They’d just come from the lab where they’d been hoping to hear John report on the Castlerock PMs, but he hadn’t yet completed them. The pathologist had decided the night before to have the bodies brought to Belfast instead of travelling north, and Craig wondered whether that had been because he’d wanted to avoid Julia as well.

It made sense. If his friend hadn’t seen her then he couldn’t ask him about her, and the less discussion about the lady the more likely she was to fade from his mind. John was looking out for him as usual.

Davy waited until the detectives reached them then nodded Ash to report on the website before updating them on the SUV. He was just about to move on and answer Liam’s question when Craig stopped him in his tracks.

“What name did they give their fish wholesaler, Ash?”

The analyst frowned for a moment, trying to recall. To be honest he’d been so impressed by the fish part that he hadn’t paid much attention to its name.

“I’ll need to check, chief. Why?”

“Leakage. People leak information all the time, even when they try not to. The fact that he chose fish as their fake sales item may have been intentional, a kind of in-joke, or an accident, but either way it was clearly a psychological leak about their life given that we believe they’re fishermen. The name they chose for the wholesalers may provide another leak, and there could be more on the site. Comb through it, Ash, and take note of every piece of information no matter how small. For all we know there could be the location of their home town or lair, or even a house of phone number, complete or in part. Write down whatever you can find and bring it to me, please.”

The analyst nodded, impressed. He’d never heard of psychological leaks much less realised that he’d found one.

“OK, Nicky or Davy, you can answer Liam’s question now. Whose name?”

In response, the detectives were treated to the same photo exhibition the others had just viewed, and they came to much the same conclusions.

“He looks like a thug, boss. I’m not sure I’d like to tackle him, never mind some lad barely out of his teens.”

“I agree. Davy, do you still have that video clip from the square that Andy showed us?”

It appeared onscreen.

“OK, how tall was Nicholas Sanders?”

A quick check and, “Five-ten” came back. In response Craig drew a line on the screen with his finger, from Nicholas Sanders’ head to their submissive perp’s.

“The submissive’s shorter, boss.”

“By a couple of inches. Which means he’s around five-eight and the dominant looks a good six-two to six-four.”

“And a hell of a lot bulkier. The wee one’s wiry looking so probably strong enough, but he isn’t pumped up like that bruiser. If those two ever fought the wee one would be dead.”

Craig nodded. The men’s physiques supported their theories of a hierarchical relationship, and the submissive’s fear.

“OK, good work. What else are you working on, Davy?”

“The SUV, oil imports, and I’ve got names to check now on the arsons.”

“The fire chief came through?”

“Yep. It seems there was a young gang prowling the Cork area around that time. Also, Ash is heading back to SCA to follow up things on the website and moderator.”

“We’ll leave you in peace then. Let’s go to my office and talk, Liam. Nicky, any chance of some refreshments? And could you get Andy on the line for me, please?”

Craig had just taken his first mouthful of coffee when his desk phone rang.

“Andy?”

“Hi, chief.”

“I’ll put you on speaker so Liam can hear.”

“While he chows down on biscuits. I can hear him crunching all the way from here.”

Liam leant into the speaker and said, “Yum yum.”

“Thanks for that attempt to make me jealous, but they actually sell biscuits in Galway as well.”

Craig shook his head at the exchange and moved on. “First, good work on those images, Andy, and on the SUV.”

“Thanks. It was Mary who spotted his face in a reflection. Until then we only had side and top-down views.”

“Well done Mary as well then. Anything else interesting happening there?”

“Not much. We found Nicholas Sanders’ phone, but there were no prints so the perps must have worn gloves-”

Liam cut in. “No prints at all?”

“None. Why?”

“Because sod them wearing gloves, mate, that means they wiped the handset. Gloves wouldn’t explain finding none of the Sanders boy’s prints on his own mobile.”

Craig smirked at the pickup.

“Very good. OK, Andy, if Liam’s right, which he’s likely to be, that means unless our perps had the foresight to use alcohol to wipe the phone, and remember they were in a rush to get the boys out of that garage, some of their DNA might still be there. Get on to the Garda forensic labs and ask them to swab it. Des has equipment with all the bells and whistles so I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

“I’ll need to get a sample of Nicholas’ to rule it out.”

“I’m sure the Guards can facilitate that.”

When the normally helpful DCI’s reply of, “OK” sounded less than enthusiastic, Craig asked why.

“Because don’t we already have a possible DNA sample from one of our perps from the gouged skin, chief? What use is another one?”

“Interesting question. Liam, would you like to answer it?”

He did so in a such a slow, authoritative tone that Craig just knew he’d been dying to try out the voice for his exam.

“Well, Chief Inspector Angel, it’s useful because we don’t know which of our perpetrators the skin DNA sample came from or even if it came from one of them at all and not a paying guest. Also, we may get the other perpetrator’s DNA this time and he just might have a criminal record and give us a name.”

Andy smirked at the response. “Was that your best DCS voice?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Chief Inspector. I speak like this all the time.”

The response was a laugh from everyone listening.

“OK, Inspector Clouseau, I’ll chase for phone DNA and keep my fingers crossed.”

“Good. Anything else, Andy?”

“Yes. Della’s running Blackbeard’s face against Irish passports and checking all the databases here. We reckon maybe fishing or driving licenses might produce something.”

“Blackbeard… I like it.”

“It popped into my head when I saw his face.”

“OK, once you’ve set that phone DNA in motion, I think you’ll have done as much in Galway as you can, so it might be worth you paying a visit to the other abduction sites, Andy. Or the Cork one at least.”

“So that we’re local in case Davy IDs the perps?”

“That and you might also pick up something there that was missed last year. But if Davy does ID one of the perps, I don’t want anyone moving on them until Liam and I get there.”

“OK, we’ll head down to Cork after lunch and see what we can find, chief. Just a thought. Has anyone informed the Galway parents about their sons yet?”

“The Guards are handling that. Better for the families to hear it from local police who’ll be around to offer support.”

“Good thinking. And anything from the Castlerock bodies yet, chief?”

“John’s still PM-ing them. But we may get some leads from the arson, oil imports and the website, and Gabriella’s still working on the boats. We’ll know more about all that later. OK, Andy, when you arrive in Cork let Nicky know. I’m not sure whether we’ll be briefing this evening or tomorrow morning but you’ll be informed.

****

Rural County Cork.

Gerry Eastwood gazed through the dirt-smeared window of the stables at the abandoned yard outside, wondering about the horses that had once gathered there and the riders who had beat a rhythm on the cobbles with their hooves. Gentry probably; the ruins of the nearby manor house suggested as much. Scions of privilege from the Anglo-Irish ascendancy that he’d read about in one of his books.

He’d slipped inside the manor once on a brief escape from Dermot and marvelled at its smooth parquetted floors, once so obviously cared for but now filthy from decades of neglect, and at the tattered remnants of tapestries that still hung from its walls, bearing the likenesses of seventeenth and eighteenth-century Lords and Ladies installed there to keep the indigenous Irish natives in their place. He knew he should have been disgusted by the colonialism that the house represented but he’d been fascinated by its history instead.

Dermot would say that made him a traitor to Ireland but he’d never been interested in politics, just in his books and learning more about the world; it was all that he’d wanted to do since passing his Leaving Cert and he lamented that the family he’d been born into had taken him on a different route.

Or rather not his family; his parents had hoped that eventually he would leave the sea for an easier life. But Dermot needed a servant, and in the past year a partner in crime, and had threatened fatal violence against them all to ensure that he’d agreed. Now there was no other future for him but this.

The young man shook his head sadly and returned to his computer, psyching himself up to enter the dark world that disgusted him but would keep a knife from his parents’ throats.

He knew Dermot’s cycle well now. First the stalking and planning, then the abductions, and after that him being expected to post vile adverts in virtual cesspools and deal with the logistics of it all. The bidding, payment, travel, and finally finding a safe place for their victims’ final rest.

He'd fought even that role for months; resisting and coping with the wounds inflicted on him until finally he was inured to all threat and Dermot had known it. His own death didn’t scare him, in fact he would welcome it as rest, but when he’d turned on their parents, holding a knife so close to their mother’s throat that terror had scorched her bright blue eyes and blood had trickled down her softening neck, he had finally given in.

Even then his father had begged him not to help with whatever Dermot had planned, his imagination stretching only to smuggling at the worst. And to be left at that by Dermot if he agreed.

His brave Da, willing to risk his own fate rather than let his youngest son throw away his future. But he couldn’t find it in him to accept the sacrifice so now here he was.

Out of fight, out of clever ideas to move his parents to safety and call the authorities on his brother, all attempts over the years anticipated and foiled by Dermot’s keen sense of preservation keeping him several steps ahead.

For years he’d known nothing but his brother’s truth and been frozen by it, as he was still frozen now.

As Gerry Eastwood turned on his laptop and braced himself for what he was about to see, half of him hoping to discover something so vile that it would distract his brother and perhaps sate his urges for another few weeks, and half readying himself for just another day of despair, he had no idea that the device before him might be his doorway to a better world.

****

SCA. 11.30 a.m.

Aidan Hughes was locked to a computer as well, viewing images that might rob even a Vice-hardened old hand like him of sleep, when a movement in his peripheral vision made him turn to see a middle-aged officer beckoning him across.

As he approached the man’s desk, he extended a hand.

“DCI Hughes, Murder Squad.”

The handshake that he got in return was so firm it made him smile; it felt like the guy was squeezing extra hard to prove something, an opinion Aidan revised when he noticed that the man had paws like catchers’ mitts.

“I’m DCI Roberts. Billy. DCS Porteon told you I check for paedophile images?”

“Not by name, but yes.”

“Well, I may have found something on that boy you’re looking for.”

As Aidan pulled up a chair a photo of Felix Sanders came sliding towards him.

“That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You got this from Marlene?”

“Nope. Trafficking. Andy White copied it around. It’s clearer than the one I was using so I tried it in my search programme for new kiddie-porn stills and videos over the past two months. I thought that would be long enough.”

“It should be plenty.”

Roberts nodded and Aidan noted with interest that he bore the faint scars of hairs being transplanted from the nape of his neck. The operation had clearly worked because Billy Roberts had a mane that Rapunzel would have been proud of, so Aidan made a note for future reference should his own mop ever get thin. He’d been lucky so far but stats and his family history were against him holding on to his follicles for good.

While the Murder DCI was contemplating his future aesthetics, Billy Roberts was busy pulling up the results of his search, and even though Aidan had been bracing himself for the findings, when they appeared they still hit him like a punch in the gut.

This was the reason that he’d left Vice for Murder. Vice’s victims mightn’t all have died but the sordidness and inhumanity of their lives had often felt worse.

He watched in silence as the images flashed by, waiting for the grim parade to finish and trying to focus on facts instead of his urge to kill the bastards who’d done such unspeakable things to an innocent boy.

“Those were all of Felix Sanders? You’re certain?”

Roberts gave a glum nod.

“Collated by my programme, then I ran facial recognition on each of them personally. These eleven images are of Felix Sanders.”

“Earliest and latest dates of posting?”

“The first went up in a general paedophile chatroom on the second of March, advertising the boy for rent, and the last one is from yesterday. It’s from a different chatroom, one that specialises in age-preferential offenders, and it’s from a video not a still. Don’t ask to watch it because you really don’t want to. I’ll need to dig deeper, but from what I can work out so far, the person who first posted the boy for rent is different to this poster so I’m wondering if instead of the boy being rented out, he was sold.”

“To this video maker?”

“Probably. The good news, if there is any, is a) your boy looks healthy, so unlikely to have been beaten or starved. The age-selective perves normally keep kids in good condition, to sell on when they grow too old. And b) the language on the post is English. I mean English-English, the sort spoken in these islands. There are no Americanisms and no signs that it’s been translated from another language, so the likelihood is that the boy is being held either in Ireland or GB.”

“Small mercies.”

The SCA officer gave a weak smile.

“You learn to focus on them here. There’s something else as well. The format of the video looks familiar. It’s the same as on a paedophile site that Vice busted six months ago, so they might have something on it. I’ll check. I’ve made a print out of everything for you to take.”

Aidan nodded eagerly, grateful to have something to do that didn’t require sitting still.

“Wait here while I get it.”

The DCI returned quickly with a folder. “Everything you need is inside.” He gestured at his computer. “OK, I need to get back to it. I’ll let you know if I find more.”

Aidan was just rising to leave when he noticed a hat across the room and knew instantly that it belonged to Ash. It was a Stetson, no doubt chosen to create a macho cowboy image and impress Lily Granger, seated beside him typing on a PC.

Aidan moved towards them stealthily so that he could hear their conversation.

By, “Yeh, ChatGPT is really rad” he’d given up trying to understand what they were talking about, convinced that the language adopted by each generation was deliberately designed to confuse the one before.

The advantage the older generation had however, was that its members were usually the boss.

“Hello, Ash. Working hard?”

His stealth was rewarded by the analyst jumping in a most un-macho way, causing his companion to smirk.

“I am, sir. He’s mostly trying to chat me up.”

A woman with insight. Respect.

“Well, since you’re doing all the work, Lily, what can you tell me about the website and moderator complaint.”

She swivelled her chair to face him. “The moderator can’t be traced but my undercover managed to find a way for me to message them, so I’ve just sent one.”

“Saying what?”

“That we’re an interested party who knows that they received a complaint about a rape advert being posted in a torture chatroom and giving the date. Then I said that I was hoping that either they’re a good citizen of the Dark Web who would like to supply me with whatever they have on the advert’s poster-”

“Are they likely to have details?”

“They must have had something to get the advert removed, or at least to request that nothing similar is posted in future.”

“OK. You said either, so what’s the or?”

“Or, I’ll pass on their info to someone who might dig deeper into their group, shut it down and perhaps even prosecute them for being its moderator.”

“Good incentive to cooperate, but won’t you do that anyway?”

“Yes, but since they don’t know that I’m a cop, this way they might still believe that they have a parachute. At the moment they probably think I’m just another perve who objects to rape ads in other chatrooms and wants to troll the poster, so let’s see what comes back.”

“Great work. And the website?”

Determined to salvage something of his image, Ash’s head shot up.

“That’s me.”

“OK, John Wayne, what have you got?”

“Tech stuff, but not the leakage that the chief wanted.”

“Talk me through it.”

“OK, so when you enter the Freedom.com site, the front interface refers to a company called Freedom Fish. I think the chief was hoping for a place or family name, but no such luck. There are no contact addresses or phone numbers on the site either.”

“Damn.”

“Yep. But on the bright side, I’ve got all the site traffic since the Cork abductions. The website was only created a fortnight before that.”

“That’s hopeful. It may mean there were no killings before Cork.”

The analyst gave him a sceptical look. “If you say so.”

Lily stepped in. “Ash means they could have been working low-tech before then, sir.”

“Thanks. I got the sarcasm. Go on, Ash.”

“Well, I’ll check all the logins obviously, but they could be fake.”

“Pessimist.”

With a snigger the analyst went on. “Plus, I have all the replies to the adverts so I’ll check those for addresses and phone numbers. On the payment side, I originally thought they’d all used e-currency, but I’ve actually found a debit card.”

“That will give you a bank account!”

“Ahead of you there, chief. I’ve got the name, but the account is in Athens and there was a cash withdrawal on it there this morning so he’s not our perp.”

“Pass the name on to Interpol and the Greek cops anyway.”

“Already done. Also on the payment side, there are two separate portals. One where people paid for face-to-face participation with the victims, and some of the transaction amounts there were big. I’m talking thousands. The second portal is for pay-per-view, which had a far lower average cost. But there were payments made through it from all over the globe so it added up to a lot of dosh. I’ve also found something disturbing.”

“More than that bucket of disturbing?”

“Yeh, believe it or not. This one even gave me the ick and that takes a lot.”

Lily stopped typing to listen.

“The first portal isn’t just set up to take straight payments for participation. It has a bidding function.”

“You mean they auctioned off the face-to-face activities?!”

“Yep. They made the perves bid against each other. And there was an extra function on the pay-per-view portal too.”

“For betting? We’ve seen that before.”

Ash shook his head. “Not just for betting. For additional payments. I think the perves watching from home were allowed to make suggestions or even give real-time direction on what was done to the boys.”

“Fuck!” was out of Aidan’s mouth before he could stop it; then the cynical, middle-aged copper surprised his young companions with tears springing to his eyes.

He blinked them back before any fell, but they didn’t disappear and he wasn’t sorry that they were there. He was horrified by the images that the analyst’s words had conjured; the sheer terror that their victims must have experienced and the creeping evil that they’d been forced to face.

Recovering slowly, he became aware that Lily was gazing at him with concern and brushed it off with a weak joke. But he knew that he needed to end the discussion now.

Just as he was leaving for some fresh air, Ash added in a brighter tone.

“When you get downstairs could you tell Davy I’ve found the site creator’s signature code, so we’re good to go with the Trojan when the chief decides on his message.”

“Don’t you have to give him a character count first?”

“Crap! I forgot about that. OK, tell Davy I’ll check what max the Trojan can carry and let him know.”

Lily shook her head. “I’ve already forgotten everything you just said, Ash, and my guess is that DCI Hughes has too. Wouldn’t it just be easier if you wrote Davy an email?”

Shooting her a smile that said she would go far; Aidan exited the unit in search of his fresh air.

Chapter Ten

The CCU.

Criminal investigations were like buses, or rather their useful outputs were. Not in the big, red sense but in the way that several often came at once.

That was what was happening in the squad-room when Aidan entered, after his dose of fresh air and via trips to Vice and Trafficking to share what he’d discovered on Felix Sanders and give them fresh impetus.

There was a queue of people outside Craig’s office when he arrived, so, rather than enter and give his update immediately as he’d intended, Aidan pulled up a vacant chair and slung his feet up on a desk, earning him a raised eyebrow from Craig’s PA.

“Don’t you like your own desk anymore?”

The DCI indicated Gabriella and Davy waiting outside Craig’s door.

“I’d hate to miss my turn. Besides, I prefer the company here.”

Nicky’s response was to rise and walk to the kitchen, quipping as she passed him, “With so few people left in the north, I can see why. Pretty soon there’ll only be me left.”

Just then Craig’s office door opened and Liam popped his head out. He scanned the waiting trio and called for Davy first, leaving Gabriella standing, as her mother would have put it, ‘with two arms the one length.’

Aidan beckoned her across. “Don’t take it personally, Gabby. The guv must need Davy’s stuff sharpish. He’s always quick so you’ll get in soon.”

She leaned against the desk, folding her arms. “I never take anything personally unless it has my name on it, sir. Anyway, where were you? You’ve been gone a while.”

He dropped his feet to the floor and adopted a serious expression.

“First, never, ever call me sir unless we’re in front of the public. Chief, guv, boss, OK, but sir makes me think of the fossilised teachers we had at school and I’m nothing like them.”

She smirked at his ego, or vanity; she was never quite sure which it was with men.

“And second, I was at SCA, then Vice, then Trafficking, and the contents of those conversations were so damn depressing that I’d rather only report them once, so eavesdrop at the door when I go in and you’ll get the gist.”

Just then Nicky appeared at his shoulder. “You have my full permission to eavesdrop, Gabby, because I won’t be doing it this time. I have no desire to hear about all those dirty men.”

Eavesdropping at Craig’s door was her main entertainment.

She held a filled percolator aloft. “Either of you fancy a coffee while you’re waiting?”

What happened next confirmed both a long-held suspicion and the ‘cocktail party effect.’

No sooner had the word ‘coffee’ hit the air than Liam’s head popped out again.

“The boss says can he have one too, Nicky?”

Proof positive that no matter how noisy the space or how far away Craig was, when words that mattered to him were spoken, he would hear them at once.

“And I suppose you’d like a tea?”

“While you’re there, aye.”

With that the deputy ducked back inside the office to listen to Davy’s report.

“So, we’ve traced the SUV to a village, chief. Well, more like a scattered collection of houses, farms, and fields. Just outside a market town called Macroom. It’s parked on a lane that has a derelict manor house at its end, but it isn’t close to any other buildings that I can see.”

“How far is this from the Cork coasts, Davy?”

“The south Cork coast, around twenty-five miles. The south-west, around fifty-five.”

Craig turned to his deputy. “This sounds like the perfect secondary location.”

“Aye, but only if we can narrow it to a specific building, boss. They’re hardly going to be torturing the poor buggers in the middle of a field. They’d need privacy. Serious privacy too, because the boys were bound to have screamed.”

“True. OK, good work, Davy, but Liam’s right. We need you to find a private building in an isolated location. Perhaps that manor house? There’ll need to be electricity and Wi-Fi supplies for streaming of course.”

The analyst puffed out his cheeks. “I’ll try, chief, but...”

“Problems with the ASU?”

The analyst shook his head quickly. “No way. They’ve been brilliant. The problem is… historic satellite images show that the SUV has been sitting there since the twenty-fifth of February when the Sanders brothers were taken, and today’s footage shows that it hasn’t moved an inch.”

“No other vehicles showing on the historic footage? In case they swopped cars.”

“None, which tells me there’s nobody living in that area. The farms and houses must be abandoned. It also means that if the perps swopped cars in February, they did so quickly. Between satellite passes.”

“And we have no way of finding out what the new vehicle is. Damn. OK, let’s stick to what we know for certain. In February they parked in that lane and either drove, carried, or walked the Sanders boys to their lair.”

Liam perked up. “If they’d driven, surely they would just have done it in that car and then driven back and parked? No, I say they walked or carried them to the lair, boss, which means it’s very close. And not overlooked or someone might have reported people being forced or carried.”

“Is any of that helpful, Davy?”

“The lair not being in sight of any occupied buildings or even field workers in the daytime, yes, definitely. I can use that. Electricity and Wi-Fi ditto. There’s another thing that might help, chief. Nicholas Sanders was killed with two other boys, so I’ll take a closer look at their abductions and crosscheck for possible vehicles to see what they throw up. Meanwhile, I was thinking we could ask the local Guards to search the area around the SUV?”

Craig hemmed and hawed for a moment before shaking his head. “Leave that with me, Davy. I don’t want to tip our killers off until we’re ready to drop the net, and if they see coppers in the area…”

The analyst nodded. “Understood. OK, the only other thing I have is on the arson. I’m running that gang I was given now.”

“How many members?”

“There were seven who got up to all sorts of petty crime locally. Stealing, nicking and wrecking cars in street races, and general vandalism. The arson was happening around the same time and thought to be theirs as well. I think it’s unlikely the whole group did it because arson’s usually a solo pursuit, but it might yield something.”

“Keep on it.”

Craig smiled. They would get a break soon; he could feel it. The buses were starting to arrive.

Just then the door opened and Nicky entered with a tray, giving Davy the perfect opportunity to leave.

“Thanks, Nicky. Is that Gabriella I see outside?”

“Yes, she’d like a word. Aidan’s waiting as well.”

“Send them in together then. It will disseminate information.” He lifted his mug of coffee and savoured the aroma. “And thanks for this, I was-”

“Gasping. I know.”

He heard, “The ACC will see you both now” as she exited and a moment later the two detectives appeared.

“Right, you first, Gabriella. What have you got for us?”

She set her smartpad on the desk and turned it so everyone could see and a graphic appeared onscreen.

“Based on our previous discussion, there are only three large boat/motorboat combinations on the whole island that could fit our scenario. One is a yacht called ‘Rathlin’ that carries a four-person motorboat, and as soon as I mentioned warrants the licensing agency told me that it sailed out of Holywood-”

“That’s your stomping ground, boss.”

“Used to be, but I haven’t sailed from there for years so I wouldn’t know any names. Carry on, Gabriella.”

“The other two are trawlers that could carry either size of motorboat. But the agencies wouldn’t even give me their names without warrants. Something about them being down south.”

“Different jurisdiction, lassie, so they’re not willing to risk the wrath of the southern courts.”

The sergeant sighed at the bureaucracy, although it was some comfort to know that the disease didn’t only affect the police.

“Anyway, I finally wheedled out of them that they were both harboured in County Cork.”

Craig’s, “Damn” was immediate and in an unexpected show of tact, Liam explained.

“He isn’t saying damn to you, lassie, he’s saying it to himself. Davy’s just found a possible secondary location inland, twenty-five miles from the south Cork coast and fifty-five from the south-west one, so only knowing the trawlers are in County Cork means we can’t rule either of them out.”

Craig leant forward on this desk.

“So…we have three possibilities on the boats. Based on the abduction and disposal sites the Holywood one is the least likely, but we can’t rule it out yet. So?”

“We need warrants, sir, one for each boat’s name and skipper’s info and another to search them, but that’s also complicated by the north-south split.”

Craig nodded. “Right. Let me think about this for a moment.”

As he did so, he drummed his fingers hard on the desk; until the noise irritated Aidan so much that he wanted to scream, “STOP!”

Liam got there before him and reached over to clamp Craig’s hand.

He stopped drumming immediately and smirked.

“Hint taken. Now, give me my hand back, Liam.”

“Gladly. I’ve far prettier people to hold hands with than you.”

Chuckling, Craig turned back to the sergeant.

“OK, Gabriella, here’s what I’d like you to do. Draft a set of bullet points explaining how you concluded that you needed the details of these vessels and their owners and send it to me ASAP. Aidan will draft the northern warrants and get them signed, then you and he will pay Holywood a visit. I’ll liaise with the Guards to do the same down south. That will be slower, but we should still have all three boats and their owners checked within a day.”

He lifted his coffee again and turned to his tanned DCI. “Your turn.”

Aidan kept it short but not sweet. “Right. The moderator is being pursued by Constable Granger and her undercover. They’ve sent them a message but I wouldn’t hold your breath for a response.”

“Cynic.”

“Proud of it. Also, Ash is hot on the website and he’s found all sorts of nasties there.”

“Like what?”

“Like people were bidding for the face-to-face activities.”

Liam gawped at him. “They were auctioning the lads off?”

“Yep. Also, there was betting on the pay-per-view and a facility to pay for additional perversions and direct the action in real time.”

Craig shook his head despairingly. “We’ve entered the ninth circle of hell.” When the shaking failed to erase any images there, he moved on. “OK. Any hope of tracing a punter through the payment system, Aidan?”

The DCI shook his head. “They all paid in crypto, bar one idiot who used a Greek debit card, but the card was used in Athens this morning so he’s not one of our perps. Ash is passing his info to Interpol and the Greek police.”

“One down is better than none down, Hughesy.”

When the comment was met with a shrug, they all understood; it was hard to get excited about killing one cockroach when the world was infested with them. But they would keep on doing it just the same.

“What about the Trojan, Aidan?”

“Ash says he can plant one and he’s sending Davy all the stuff on that, including the character count of the message that he needs you to draft. You need to get a move on there, guv.”

Craig nodded briskly. “I’ll speak to Davy when we’re done.”

“There were other points on the website too, guv. It was set up just before the first abduction, so hopefully there were none before that.”

“Perhaps.”

“And the name of the wholesaler was Freedom Fish. Ash thought you’d be disappointed.”

Everyone was surprised when Craig smiled, and his deputy demanded an explanation.

“Ash is right, and wrong. Yes, it would have been great if the website had given us a geographic location or the killer’s name, but in retrospect it was never going to. The more I thought about things last night the more I realised that Freedom-dot-com was already telling us something. If the website was designed by the submissive, he’s expressing his desire to escape his oppression through its name.”

Aidan nodded slowly. “While probably telling the dominant that he chose ‘Freedom-dot-com’ because they’re offering their customers the freedom to explore forbidden urges.”

“Possibly. I hadn’t thought that far-”

Liam cut in. “You think this confirms he’s looking for a way out?”

“It gives me hope of getting a reply to our Trojan message at least. OK, final thing…”

Craig hesitated for a moment before asking his next question, not sure that he wanted to hear the response.

Liam spotted his dilemma and asked himself.

“Anything on Felix Sanders, Hughesy?”

Aidan nodded glumly. “Eleven images of the boy from kiddie-porn stills and a video, posted between early March and yesterday. The video went up yesterday. The first post was in a general paedophile chatroom, advertising him for rent, but the video came from an age-preferential site so we’re thinking that someone’s bought the boy.”

Gabby shook her head. “Animal.”

Aidan tried to be upbeat. “Yes, but on the plus side it means that Felix is still alive, likely to be well-fed and cared for and, as it will probably be a while before he ages out, the offender won’t sell him on soon. Also, the site was in English, guv. Our version of English so likely to be in Ireland or GB. And SCA said the video was formatted like a paedophile site that Vice busted a few months back, so I took the information to Vice and Trafficking on my way back.”

“Well done, Aidan. Stay on that. We need a win for the Sanders family.”

Craig glanced at his watch. Almost one o’clock.

“Anything else? Anyone?”

When there were only shaking heads, he rose to his feet.

“Good. OK, Gabriella, sort that Holywood warrant and go take a look at the yacht after lunch. Aidan, you go along too, but stay on Felix Sanders and keep an eye on everything the SCA side as well. I’ll sort out that virus message and the southern warrants. Liam, did you bring your go-bag?”

“Yep. It’s in my car.”

Aidan’s ears pricked up. “Off on your hols, are you?”

“I wish. The boss seems to think we’ll be heading south tonight.”

“I’m sure we will be, but not until we hear more from Andy and Davy.”

Speaking of Davy, the analyst greeted Craig’s exit from his office with one word.

“Thirty.”

“If only I still was, Davy.”

That earned him a laugh and an explanation.

“No, I meant the character count on your message is thirty max, chief, so think about what you want to say.”

Craig pulled up a chair by his desk and threw the question back to him.

“What do you think would entice our submissive perpetrator to contact us?”

The analyst chewed thoughtfully on his pen before he replied

“I think the answer is in your question, chief. He’s submissive, so bound to be fearful of, well, pretty much everything really. Also, he’s used to being dominated, so I think… yeh, we need something that gets straight to the point but makes him feel safe.”

“Add this to your calculations, Davy. We think that using Freedom-dot-com as a domain name is him communicating his desire to escape.”

“I don’t disagree, but I’m betting not from the frying pan to the fire. And getting nicked by the cops is a big fire.”

Craig nodded. “So, we need to offer him something in this message. But I won’t make him false promises, Davy. Coerced into this situation or not, there’s no way the courts will let him off scot-free.”

He ran a finger pensively along the analyst’s desk. “It’s going to be hard to convey all of that in thirty characters.”

Davy shook his head. “Then don’t. It can be discussed in follow-up contacts. Opening the dialogue is what’s important, isn’t it?”

Craig edged forward in his chair. “It is. OK, so how’s this for opening the dialogue? Looking for freedom, question mark, followed by my mobile number and an email address.”

Davy shook his head. “Nice try but too long.”

He wrote ‘Escape?’ on a sticky instead.

“That’s only seven characters, chief. A mobile number’s another eleven, or thirteen if he’s calling here from the south, so that would only leave nine for an email address. There’s no chance of finding one that short.”

“Could we make one? I mean mock up a website and generate an email? What if we leave out the phone number? Could we do it then?”

“Yeh, leaving out the phone number could work.”

“I don’t know why I even mentioned my mobile. If he’s really being dominated the chances of him being free to make a phone call or even send a text are small.”

“So, we write escape as a question and follow it with an email address.”

“Or…how about the messaging facility on the website, Davy? Is there some way he could post a message on there for you to see?”

The analyst’s mouth opened to object then he changed his mind. “Actually, that might work…”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised! I’m not a complete computer illiterate.”

“Not complete, chief, no. But seriously, if we send that message saying, ‘Escape?’ and follow it with either a short email address that I generate or just ‘site message app’ both add up to fewer than thirty characters.”

“Will he understand what it means?”

“That we want him to use the messaging facility he created? Yeh, I think so. But the content still feels a bit…”

“Cold? I agree. It doesn’t take account of his fear. So, how about if we say ‘Escape? For help - site message app.’ Or else you insert a generated email address after help.”

“Better. Right, let me see what I can do on the email side, then we can tweak it to under thirty characters once you choose between that and the app.”

“You choose. I trust you.”

‘Escape? For help’ followed by a newly created email address was attached to a Trojan on the website twenty minutes later, leaving them with little more to do but wait and pray.

****

Riretown Technical College. Cork City.

They were at the stomping ground of the first two abductees, victims that they hadn’t known existed until they’d had three of their own, and the satellite Belfast Murder Squad couldn’t deny it; the liveliness of their campus surroundings felt dulled because of that.

If the killers had been caught here last summer, then nine young men could have been spared their fates and a ten-year-old wouldn’t be out there alone and suffering God only knew what.

The knowledge affected them all differently: Andy with sorrow, Ryan with jaw-clenching determination, and Mary, well she was imagining being alone in a room with their killers and a liberal supply of knives.

But none of those feelings would move them forward, so after five minutes spent gazing around the campus that Jason Freeland and Tobias Butler had attended, Andy sat down on a bench to regroup.

“I don’t want to miss anything obvious, so here’s what we know. Stop me if I get anything wrong, Della.”

The Guard had accompanied them from Galway, fighting her superiors to do so, not willing to give up on the case.

She nodded, curious about the detectives’ process after watching them say nothing for several minutes, minutes that she wrongly assumed had been filled not with raw emotion but thought.

“Jason Freeland and Tobias Butler, seventeen and nineteen respectively, disappeared from this college in July of last year and were found in September in a cove near Bantry Bay, laid out side-by-side but not with their feet in the water. Correct?”

Ryan nodded. “Yes.”

“They were wearing clothes with some of the labels cut out?”

“Yes again.”

“But was each boy wearing his own clothes?”

Della frowned, taken aback by the question. “What?”

“It’s just something that a colleague in Belfast mentioned. That the killers might have swopped their clothes over as a forensic countermeasure-”

Mary cut in. “Or playing games.”

“That too. But to me the swopping is less important than were any of the items unidentified? If so, that could mean they’d come from someone entirely unrelated.”

In which case, who?

Ryan regarded him curiously.

“Like who, chief? And when did you think of that?”

“This morning. I woke up with it in my head.”

“I wouldn’t fancy your dreams.”

As Andy chuckled at the comment, Della took out her smartphone, tapping it a few times before finding the right screen.

“It says here that the parents identified all the items of clothing. But they weren’t on the bodies at the time.”

“But no third body out there that we haven’t found. That’s something positive at least. Would you mind checking the clothes on the Clare bodies too, Della?” He pointed across the campus. “We’ll be over there looking around.”

Looking at nothing in particular since they were miles from the victims’ actual abduction site, but it would give them a private moment to talk.

“Did I miss any questions? Ryan? Mary?”

The inspector nodded. “The boys’ jewellery. We should ask about pawnshops. Davy was going to check that, wasn’t he? Also, where did the boys live in relation to their abduction sites? You should ask Della about that too.”

“You do that while I call Davy.”

They discovered that both Clare victims had been wearing their own clothes when ID-ed, although again with some labels removed. Perhaps removing the labels had been the only forensic countermeasure on their kills.

Pawnshops north and south had been checked for all the victims’ missing jewellery, except those not yet IDed in Castlerock, but nothing had been found, and the distances between the boys’ homes and where they’d been abducted averaged between three and seven miles.

Andy shook his head glumly. “There’s nothing significant there. The only connection between the abductions seems to be they were selected from places where lots of young men hung out. They were chosen there then stalked and snatched.”

Ryan nodded. “Blackbeard may have done the choosing but the younger perp must have done the stalking, chief. Blackbeard would have stuck out around here like a sore thumb.”

“Agreed. But judging by what happened with the Sanders brothers’, Blackbeard probably supervised the stalking every time.”

Just then something occurred to Mary and she took out her phone to call Ash, dispensing with any pleasantries to get straight to the point.

“Are you sure there weren’t any adverts in advance of the abductions? Not even the first time in Cork?”

Annoyed at her abruptness, the analyst feigned confusion, saying, “I’m sorry, who is this? And how did you get my number, Madam? I can’t have strange women calling me at work” and hung up.

Furious, she phoned back and had just managed to say, “Now listen to me, you little” before getting cut off again.

Knowing exactly what had happened and knowing that she’d deserved it, Ryan shook his head.

“Do you remember that old saying about honey and vinegar, Mary? Well, listen and learn.”

He dialled the analyst from his own phone and said pleasantly, “Hello, Ash, it’s Ryan. We’re down in Cork and wondered if you could answer something for us?”

He held out the receiver for Mary to hear the response, “Sure. Fire ahead” before repeating the question that she had asked just a moment before. When the analyst replied, “I’ll get back to you ASAP” Ryan said thanks and ended the call before his companion could combust.

“That little shit!”

Andy had been watching the whole thing and shook his head. “That’s just rude, Mary, much like your approach was. You really need to learn to work constructively with people.”

“I can work with people, just not with him!”

“Hmm…”

Before he could give her a lecture, Della asked why she’d called the analyst in the first place.

“To see if the perps had lined up customers before they took Freeland and Butler.”

Seeing the Guard’s confusion, Andy explained about the adverts and Dark Web. Della’s horror was such that he was thankful when Ryan’s phone rang and motioned him to use speakerphone so they could listen in.

“Hi, Ryan. So…you know how we’d thought they’d only advertised after they’d abducted the boys… well, it turns out that might not be the case.”

Andy leaned towards the handset. “Andy here, Ash. What makes you say that?”

“Spending more time up in SCA. Once you get to the second set of abductions the ads are so frequent and overlapping that it’s impossible to unravel them, but going back to last July when the first Vics were taken from Cork Tech…well… maybe.”

“Freeland and Butler were taken on the twenty-ninth of July, so are you now saying that there was an advert before that date?”

The analyst equivocated for a moment, then murmured, “Yeh” so weakly that Andy felt no better informed.

“Let me phrase it another way, Ash. This thing that you’re saying yeh to, exactly how did it read?”

He heard the analyst’s grin in his reply.

“Now you’ve got it, chief. It wasn’t an advert; it was a poll. You know like those little polls you can set up on social media with three or four options. Like say: if you could pick a fruit to eat, would you prefer an orange, an apple, or a banana? Then people click on the one that they would choose.”

Della gawped at the phone. “You mean they did market research before they kidnapped the boys?”

“That’s it! Market research. I couldn’t think of the right term.”

Andy shook his head. The depths of depravity in their case had just hit the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

“Read it out, Ash.”

They heard the analyst swallow hard before he did.

“It reads – ‘If you were offered the option to massage, rape, torture, or kill a man, which would you choose?’ Then it says ‘complete the poll here’ and points them to the website address used in the ads.”

As Andy closed his eyes in disgust, Ryan kept questioning.

“Where was it posted and when, Ash? Exactly.”

“We missed it because we were only looking for adverts,” came back in a contrite voice.

“Nobody’s blaming you. Just tell us when.”

“Two weeks before the Cork abductions, and so far, we’ve found it in three fetish chatrooms-”

Lily, who had been listening, cut in. “And a torture room.”

“Yeh, and a torture room now. That’s four chatrooms already, so there are bound to be more.”

“OK, Ash, send me the results. And great work.” Ryan was just about to sign off when he added, “By the way. Mary says she’s sorry for being rude,” then cut the call, rendering the constable voiceless with fury.

Knowing that it wouldn’t last, when his phone pinged almost instantly with a message the D.I. seized the chance to move on.

“OK, so… massage came out top, then torture, rape and last of all killing, but there wasn’t much between them. These are some sick puppies.”

Andy came back in. “The question is, would the boys have been killed if the audience interest hadn’t been there?”

Ryan’s response was unequivocal.

“Absolutely. There were no adverts offering the chance for visitors to kill, so we know our perps performed that task themselves, and no decent person would kill for an audience or money but a psychopath would cheerfully kill without either. All the poll told our perps was which do or view options would profit them most.”

Andy nodded decisively. “OK, Ryan, copy that poll to Davy and the ACC.” He stared pointedly at Mary. “Despite the cack-handed way in which you approached Ash, you had an excellent idea, so well done. But no more rudeness or I will involve the boss.”

When he turned to speak to Della, it was in the full knowledge that the constable would be sticking her tongue out at his back.

****

The Labs. John Winter’s Office. 1.30 p.m.

“Right, John, what have you got for us?”

The pathologist barely glanced up from his sandwich lunch as he responded, “Well, hello, John. How are you, John? Did I ever say how much I appreciated you side-lining the rest of your massive workload to focus on our case, John?”

Knowing that he deserved every sarcastic word, Craig motioned his deputy to reverse out the door and on the count of ten they entered again.

“Hello, John, such lovely weather we’re having, and poor you being locked away in dark rooms. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for your help.” He ended with a hopeful, “Better?” and waited.

After a gap of a full thirty seconds, and Liam knew that because he’d kept an eye on the clock, the pathologist rose and walked to his percolator in the only acknowledgment of Craig’s grovelling they knew they would get.

Hot drinks dispensed the conversation took a more normal turn, with Craig wary of asking about Castlerock until his friend introduced the topic with, “The victims were two young men with similar injuries to the others. Repeated assaults, likely torture, rape of both, severance of their spinal cords, and lethal injections.”

“Fentanyl?”

“Yes. Both.”

Liam cut in.

“Were the cords done with single cuts, Doc?”

“They were. From behind.”

Craig turned to his deputy. “Does that mean something to you, Liam?”

The DCS screwed up his face. “It might. One more question, Doc. Would you say all the victims’ cuts were made by the same hand?”

John considered for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about it until now, but the left-right sweep means the do-er was right-handed in every case, and…” he tapped his computer until he found what he was looking for, then turned the screen for the detectives to see. “…if you look here, you can see moulds that I requested of each wound. I’ll need measurements to confirm, but they look practically identical in width and depth.”

“Were there any hesitation marks?”

“None. Not even in the first victims.”

Liam nodded decisively. “OK. So, if the same person did all the cutting that had to have been Blackbeard. The submissive would have hesitated, at least at the start of the spree-”

John interrupted. “Who’s Blackbeard?”

Craig explained quickly then nodded his deputy on.

“But there was no hesitation, even on Victim One, and to me that means this bastard had done it before.”

“Cut cords?”

“Cut some vital body part anyway, and unless we find more dead men to tell me otherwise my guess is it was probably animals’ throats.”

Craig raised a hand to halt him and made a quick call.

“Davy? Hi, I have a quick question. Remind me about those animal mutilations in Cork, was there any spinal damage recorded?”

“In some, yes. Why?”

“I’ll tell you later. Thanks.”

He ended the call and waved his deputy on.

“Like I was saying, animals. It was one of the old ways farmers used to kill chickens. Cutting their throats from behind in a single sweep. They did it with sheep too.”

Craig felt his heartbeat quicken. Liam had hit on something important.

“You’re suggesting that Blackbeard once worked on a farm?”

When Liam nodded, John cut in. “But how would that work with your fishing theory?”

“It could have been a summer job while he was at school, John. Think about how perfect it would have been for a budding psychopath.”

“And at that age his family wouldn’t have allowed him to travel far from home, boss, even if he was Kid Psycho.”

“Excellent point. Call Davy back, Liam, and put it on speaker.”

The analyst’s voice came down the line again.

“I’m popular this afternoon.”

“Like you aren’t always, son. OK, that’s enough flattery. We’ve got a theory for you to check out.”

“Fire ahead.”

“You’re searching in County Cork for the perps’ secondary location, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and looking for the port where they might be harbouring their boat. There are a lot of inlets on that south and south-west stretch of coast, chief.”

“I’m aware. And any one of them could be our mooring. Anyway, tell him your chicken theory, Liam.”

The exchange moved through surprise and scepticism until finally the analyst murmured, “Maybe…” and Craig stepped back in.

“Liam thought it might help you with your geolocation. If the dominant did it as a summer job while he was at school-”

“Then it would have been somewhere close to his family home. OK, leave that with me, chief. I’ll need to search for chicken or sheep farms that existed more than a decade ago, and that could take a while.”

“Smallholdings too, Davy. They keep chucky hens there as well.”

“Good call, Liam. Cheers.”

As the phone clicked off, Craig turned back to his friend.

“OK, we’ve gone as far as we can on that. Anything else on the Castlerock bodies, John?”

“Just that they were found face up, eyes open and feet in the water like the others.”

“Approximate date of death?”

“Around two months ago, which fits with the others.”

Liam nodded. “Yep. And the others were found within a day of death so the same was probably true here.”

“But the Castlerock cove was so deep that they weren’t found. Any IDs yet, John?”

“Des is working on them now, along with their tox-screens and stomach contents. Oh, and you’ll recall that I said your Antrim victims hadn’t eaten for a few days before death? Neither had the other victims according to their PMs.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “The bastards knew they were going to kill them so they couldn’t be bothered giving them food.”

“Probably. One last cruelty. Although I think, depending on when their cords were cut, logistics may have played a part as well.”

Craig frowned, thinking for a moment.

“This backs up our perps doing the paralysing and killing themselves. OK, I have another question, John. Was there any unknown DNA found on the Cork victims?”

“Not that I saw in their files, but I can check again. What are you thinking?”

“That if the killers revisited the bodies, travelling distance might have dictated they only did it with the victims in Cork. And as they were the first kills, inexperience might have made them careless enough to leave DNA behind.”

“I’ll check the reports again, but I’m pretty sure there was nothing. Right, if we’re finished here, Des said he had something for you.”

Craig rose from his chair. “We’d better head up then. If you get anything more call me, John. We’ll probably be on the road.”

“To?”

“Cork. If Davy pins down the killers’ location, we’ll need to be local to back Andy up.”

The pathologist rose as well. “I’ll come upstairs with you. I’m interested in what Des might have discovered.”

The trio found out the instant that they emerged from the lift. In his eagerness to tell them, the forensic scientist had raced to stand outside it as soon as he’d heard the doors close three floors down.

Craig had only managed the “Hell-” of his hello when Des blurted out, “They’re family! Your killers are siblings!”

It took the trio aback and, between that and the lift doors trying to close with John and Liam still between them, gave Grace her amusement for the day.

“I wish I’d caught that on camera.”

Craig stepped aside to let his companions escape the jaws of death.

“I could have called it, ‘Police Academy: They’re Back!’”

Chuckling, Craig headed for her desk and found a chair to fall into, then he turned to the Head of Forensics.

“OK, Des. Could we have that slower and in more detail?”

“Sorry, yes. OK, so you know the phone found in the Galway garage?”

“Nicholas Sanders’ phone.”

“Yes. Well, the labs down south had printed it but they hadn’t tested it for DNA until Andy asked, so they did and it provided a sibling match with the skin John found beneath Nicholas Sanders’ nails. So, voila! Family.”

Liam gave a slow whistle. “Boyso, boss. Your dominant-submissive family theory is really tightening up.”

The scientist’s face fell. “You mean you already knew?”

Craig rushed to mollify him. “We didn’t know, Des, we speculated. But now that you’ve provided proof that they’re brothers, Liam is going to tell Davy right away.”

Before he could, the scientist said, “Wait!”

“Why?”

“I didn’t say they were brothers, Marc, I said they were siblings. There wasn’t enough DNA for a gender ID, even using PCR.”

PCR or Polymerase Chain Reaction is a technique where tiny amounts of DNA can be copied billions of times to provide a sample large enough for scientists to study in detail. 

Liam tutted impatiently. “Ach, sure we saw them both and they were obviously men. A young lad luring the Sanders boys in Galway, and a hairy big man watching the whole time.”

But Craig nodded at the forensic expert, understanding his need to be precise.

“No, Des is right. The younger one was much smaller and slighter so for all we know they could have been a woman, Liam. I don’t think they were for other reasons, but we need to bear it in mind. Just say siblings to Davy, please.”

Liam shook his head. “I’ll do it, but you’re wrong.”

Craig smirked. “OK, I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because we agreed that the other DNA, the sample from under the nails, probably came from a scratch, and if our dominant had noticed it, he’d have scrubbed the boy’s hands clean to remove the evidence. Yes?”

“Yes, and?”

“But he didn’t scrub them, so you said that might mean the scratch was on the submissive and he was deliberately leaving us a clue. Well, that DNA was definitely male, Des said so, so that means the submissive aka the scrawny kid in the square was a boy. And if this phone DNA isn’t his but a relative’s, are you really saying that Blackbeard is or ever was a woman?”

It was a good point.

But he was still going to keep an open mind on the subject, so he nodded Liam to make the call while he gave more detail about their case to the forensic lead.

“There’s too much to go into right now, Des, but Davy found some arsons and animal mutilations around Cork between twenty-ten and thirteen, which we think could have been part of a psychopathic triad. From that we speculated about what might happen to a family that had a budding psychopath growing up in it and what it might do to the rest of the family members, including siblings.”

“They’d live in terror.”

“Exactly. Knowing that if they didn’t do as the psychopath ordered, they or their parents could easily become victims.”

Liam came off the phone wearing a smile. “Ash has something you’re gonna want to hear, boss.”

Craig rose to his feet. “That’s our cue, gentlemen.” He made a small bow to Grace. “And lady. Time to go. And since you’re probably still suffering from lift trauma, Liam, let’s take the stairs.”

****

The CCU.

By the time the detectives arrived back at the squad-room there were more than Ash’s findings to hear about, but with typical modesty Davy, who had the second gem, allowed his junior to go first.

As the Stetson-wearing analyst outlined the request from Andy’s team and the online poll that had resulted, Craig saw his deputy’s normally placid features contort themselves, first in curiosity then disbelief and finally disgust.

“They held a poll? They held a bloody poll?!”

Craig nodded wearily. Even he found it hard to believe and his default was never to be shocked by anything vicious that human beings did.

“It’s a new one on me too. Well done for catching it, Ash.”

“Yeh well, to be fair I was asked to look, chief.”

“Then well done to Andy and Co as well.” He slapped his hands together to move them on. “OK, so… before they embarked on the killings, the Ghoul Siblings-”

Ash cut in. “We’re saying they’re definitely related now? That this is a biological family?”

“We are. Des has just confirmed it with DNA. OK, so the Ghouls decided to check out the market before they started their business. They would have started it anyway, of that I have no doubt, but this way they could see how much money they might make as well.”

He turned back to the junior analyst. “I don’t suppose you found a copy of the poll’s results?”

“I did. Massage won but the other options weren’t far behind, although interestingly killing got the lowest vote.”

“That could explain why our perps did the killings themselves, Liam. There was little appetite for it in the poll.”

“For doing it maybe, boss. The bastards would’ve been too worried about landing in jail. But you can bet your ass that they watched enthusiastically enough. And what are the odds there are a few new snuff movies circulating now?”

Craig sighed heavily. “OK… anything else, Ash?”

“We’ve found the poll in eight chatrooms so far. Mostly fetish but not all. Lily’s still on that. And we’re still chasing the moderator.”

“Good. Remind me to thank Constable Granger when this case is over, Ash. OK, so, the Ghouls researched their market, probably in parallel to the Cork victims being stalked.”

Davy nodded. “The younger perp must have followed the boys around campus and got to know their routines, chief. Watched by big brother the whole time.”

Liam shook his head. “Ooh now, don’t say brothers just yet. The boss thinks Blackbeard might be a woman.”

Craig raised his eyes to heaven. “Give me strength. I didn’t say that I believed it, I’m just keeping an open mind.”

“Aye, so open that the wind’s blowing straight through it, man.”

Davy frowned quizzically. “So, Doc Marsham didn’t get a gender from the phone DNA, chief?”

“No, the sample was too small even with PCR. But I do still believe we’re dealing with two men, Davy. Anyway, let’s move on. If we agree that the younger brother did the stalking, where did Blackbeard conceal himself to watch?”

Davy cut in. “Maybe he didn’t watch during the stalking.”

Craig shook his head. “He watched all right. The hunt would have been part of his thrill.”

“Aye, I agree with the boss. Blackbeard’s a control freak.”

“But he would have stuck out like a sore thumb at a college. And even if he’d hidden, if the victims had kept moving around campus, which they would have done attending lectures, he’d have needed to shift his vantage point several times.”

Liam’s eyes widened in realisation. “What if he didn’t hide, boss? What if he made the young one wear a camera while he was stalking so he could watch the Vics from home? Maybe he only went in person to the actual abductions.”

Craig nodded approvingly. “Brilliant, Liam. A lapel camera would have done the job perfectly. Blackbeard probably chose his victims initially in the same way.” He straightened up briskly. “Things are starting to come together. OK, Davy, you have something new for us too, I understand.”

“Yep. A response to your message.”

Craig sat forward eagerly. “When did it come in?”

“Around twenty minutes ago.”

When he saw Nicky moving across to listen, he decided on a quick recap.

“OK, we agreed to plant a message in a Trojan on the website, hoping that only the younger bro, sibling would see it. Yes?”

Everyone nodded, although Ash’s nod was more like a bored neck stretch because he didn’t want to be lumped in with the computer illiterates by his side.

“Well, the chief and I discussed it and settled on this message.”

‘Escape? For help’ appeared onscreen, followed by an email address that none of them recognised.

“That email is one I set up especially. Anyway, we’d hoped it would be enough to get a response and it was.”

“Can you show us, Davy?”

“What? Oh, yes, sorry. Here it is.”

A half page of text replaced the email address onscreen.

“That’s a lot longer than the question, boss!”

“Shush while I read it, Liam.”

When he had, Craig sat back in his chair, stunned. The response confirmed everything that they’d theorised. A family terrorised by having a psychopath in its midst; suffering years of abuse until their wills had been broken and even now receiving daily threats of violence if any of them stepped out of line.

The final paragraph chilled everyone to the bone.

‘He’s getting restless and that means he’ll start the cycle again soon. Sooner than normal. I can’t stop him alone and I can’t risk him killing my parents. You need to help.’

Liam spoke again. “At the start he says he never wanted it, boss, but that could just be him prepping his defence for court.”

Craig nodded in agreement. “It could, but we can work that out when we have them both in custody. OK, let’s think this through.”

He lifted a marker and walked to the board.

“What does this reply tell us? Facts only.”

Davy responded first. “That he has a brother and their parents are still alive. No mention of other siblings. So… four people in the family?”

“He didn’t actually say brother, boss, he just said ‘he’. It could be a cousin or something.”

“No, the DNA showed a sibling match. He’s probably just not ready to admit it’s his brother yet, for whatever reason.”

“But they are both men, boss. That ‘he’ confirms it.”

Stubbornly, Craig still wrote ‘Two siblings/two parents’ on the board.

“Good. What else? Impressions as well now.”

“It’s what you said, boss. They’ve been totally Stockholmed. So conditioned to submit to Blackbeard by years of abuse that they won’t dare move, even when he isn’t physically there.”

“Translate that into future actions, Liam.”

“They’ll either do nothing or one of the family will blow a fuse and try to kill him. But I doubt the second will happen, boss, even though the way he’s underlined ‘need’ shows desperation. Judging by the age of Blackbeard, the parents must be at least middle-aged and more likely elderly, so probably too weak to attack a fit young man. And the younger brother we’ve already seen. He’s far weedier than Blackbeard, so unless he has a gun…”

“Speaking of guns, did we get anywhere on those, Davy?”

“I don’t know. Shall I ask Gabby?”

“No, don’t worry, I’ll do it. It’s safer to assume that Blackbeard’s armed in any case. Where is Gabriella anyway?”

“With Aidan. He was heading for Vice last I heard.”

“Right. Anyway, my bet would be the younger brother doesn’t have a gun because Blackbeard wouldn’t trust anyone but himself with a weapon. And I agree, Liam, I can’t see the family doing anything without our help no matter how much the brother wants to stop the killing.”

He turned back to his lead analyst. “What email address did this come from, Davy?”

“Websites provide email addresses if you want them and that’s what he used.”

“Show me.”

‘G@Freedom.com’ appeared onscreen

Ash perked up. “Even though it’s a dot-com address we know it’s in Ireland, because that’s where the website’s being hosted, chief.”

“And now we know that our submissive’s first name starts with a ‘G’. Think hard, everyone. How do we reply to elicit a full name or an address?”

Ash spoke again. “If he wants our help so badly, shouldn’t we ask him for something? Maybe to volunteer the area of Ireland where they live? That way we’ll know we’re looking in the right county at least.”

Craig knitted his brow in thought. “How long is it since he responded, Davy? Exactly.”

“Twenty-eight minutes.”

“So, he may still be online. OK, email this. ‘We will, underline will, help you, but we need your assistance to do so. We believe that you fish out of a harbour somewhere on County Cork’s south or south-west coasts. Are we right?’”

To everyone’s surprise a reply came almost instantly. A single word ‘Yes.’

“OK, so they’re Cork-based fishermen. We were right. OK, Davy, now type, ‘We also believe that you have a second address inland in an isolated area. Are we right?’”

When another ‘Yes’ came, Craig decided to push it.

“Write ‘We need a show of good faith, so where? The address of either location.’”

After a full five minutes with no reply, speculations of, “He’s been caught”, “He’s changed his mind” and, “He’s cut contact” started to flow.

Craig let them run; either the others were right or he was, and his gut said that there was a new response on the way.

It came just as Liam and Ash started bickering and Liam grabbed the analyst’s hat and flung it across the room, making Craig roll his eyes.

“Are you five-years-old, Liam? Fetch that hat now. Anything yet, Davy?”

The analyst’s brown eyes lit up and he clicked on a newly arrived email.

“It’s a set of coordinates, chief.”

He typed excitedly for a moment, then banged his computer mouse triumphantly on the desk, the analyst’s equivalent of punching the air.

“It’s a quarter-mile from where they parked the SUV!”

Liam plonked the hat back on Ash’s head excitedly, “The secondary location! He’s given it up!”

“He has indeed. Liam, get this information to Andy. Tell him to locate the lair visually but not to go in and not to call reinforcements. He’s to watch and wait only.”

He turned back to Davy. “Type this. ‘Thank you. You’re helping us so we’ll help you. We know the risk you’re taking in doing this and that you’re wary of us, so we’ll take things as slowly as you need. But you must notify us immediately, underline immediately, Davy, if another cycle of stalking is about to start. Agreed? This email will be monitored twenty-four-seven, and if you can manage it safely call this number – add my mobile number.”

‘OK. I need to go now’ came back almost instantly, ending the exchange.

Sighs of relief filled the squad-room, although no-one had even realised that they’d been holding their breath.

“OK, Davy, you’ll need to rig up an alert on my phone and your computer for any emails, and I must be able to read them from wherever I am. We can’t risk losing him because of a slow response. I’ll deal with anything that comes in during the night.”

“Will do, chief.”

“Excellent. Right, everyone take a ten-minute break, then we’ll think about next steps.”

As the small group dispersed, he turned to his PA. “Could you check if Aidan and Gabriella are still in Vice, Nicky.”

“They aren’t. Aidan called five minutes ago saying the Holywood search warrant had been sorted and they were going to check out the yacht.”

Damn. He’d forgotten to chase the Guards on the other two boats.

“OK, tell them to get back as soon as they can. The uniforms and CSIs can finish going over the yacht. But first, get the Garda Commissioner for me and put him through to my room.”

By the time the others filtered back with drinks the warrant generating process for the two southern boats was on track. He’d asked the Commissioner to defer implementation until he got back in touch; it was imperative that Blackbeard wasn’t alerted before they were ready to move.

Nicky caught him as he exited his office.

“Aidan and Gabby are on their way back now, so I’ve said we would delay starting for a minute. Shall I get Andy onscreen when we do?”

“Please.”

She saw him eyeing her percolator “Help yourself, but it isn’t fresh.”

“I’ll go and make some then. It will help me think.”

By the time he had, the others were gathering, albeit in Andy’s case in a car on the move.

“How far away from that location are you, Andy?”

It was Della who answered. “About five minutes, sir.”

“Thanks. OK, Davy, bring everyone up-to-date on the contact messages. Liam, you take the familial DNA link, and Ash can cover the poll and chatroom posting. That should give Andy’s team time to reach the lair’s grid reference. We’ll take Aidan and Gabby when they arrive.”

He listened in silence while the group was brought up-to-date until, “We’re here” came from the screen and he raised a hand to halt Ash in mid-flow.

“Sorry, Ash, we need to see this. Andy, is there a building anywhere close?”

Just then, Aidan and Gabriella entered and he nodded them across, explaining, “We’re on with Andy. He’s checking coordinates that the submissive’s just given for the lair. Anything yet, Andy?”

“No, but I’ll get out and have a look.”

“Hold on a minute. Does anyone at your end have a recent map of the area?”

Della pulled up the latest planning surveys.

“Are there any buildings marked on it, Della?”

She squinted at the map’s minuscule print for a moment before responding.

“I think… yes, there’s something marked here. It has a reference number.” Adding after a pause, “The index says it’s a derelict stable block. And there’s a sub-reference. It says ‘see abandoned manor house’ and gives a different grid marking very close by.”

“Put the map onscreen, please.”

As soon as it appeared everyone could see what she’d meant. The manor house and stable block sat near each other, clearly two parts of what had once been a grand estate.

“Can you check who owned that house, Della?”

Liam cut in. “And whether there was a local farm that kept chickens or sheep back in the day.”

Seeing the other’s puzzled stares, he said defiantly, “Yes, you heard me. Chickens or sheep.”

Della’s voice came again.

“Land registry says it was a manor house and stables owned by the family of a Lord Brolish. It was abandoned in the mid-nineteenth century and the land was claimed by the state. It was then leased from the state in nineteen-ninety to be run as a general farm. Nothing specific about chickens or sheep but I suppose we can’t rule them out. I’m almost afraid to ask why they should have been there.”

“You really don’t want to know.”

Andy came back in. “So, what do you want us to do now, chief? I can’t see anything useful from the car so I’ll need to get out and look.”

“Just you then, Andy, but before you do, did the registry say when the farm closed, Della?”

Just as she went to say no, Mary, who had been tapping furiously on her smartpad the whole time they’d been talking, cut across her with a triumphant, “Yes!”

“You have something, Mary?”

“Yep. I’m in the Irish equivalent of Companies House and it says here that there was a registered business here from nineteen-ninety until twenty-sixteen. A farm owned by an O’Hourlihy family. There’s no farmhouse listed under the assets, just general crops, and sundri-”

Liam cut in.

“That means they lived elsewhere but planted the fields, probably with basic crops. The sundries could have included chickens, boss, and those dates mean it was open when Blackbeard was in his teens. He could’ve had a summer job there.”

Craig nodded in acknowledgement. “Yes, he could. OK, good. Right, Andy, time for you to look. Head for where the house and stables are marked on the map, but use whatever’s around for cover in case you have an audience. If you find anything useful, let Ryan know and he can drive to meet you. Take as long as you need and then get back in touch.”

It was a good twenty minutes before the call came and, “Bingo” emerged from the screen. Then the map was replaced by a photograph of a one-storey stone building that Andy had taken with his phone.

“Well done, Andy. Are you parked somewhere with good cover?”

“Yes, we’re on the slope of a hill and the building that you’re seeing is at the top.”

With Mary taking first watch on it with binoculars, the discussion began again.

“So…we’ve found the perpetrators’ lair, an old stable block and possibly also the manor house in County Cork, almost exactly where our submissive said it would be. We have him promising alerts on Blackbeard’s movements, and we have Lily and Ash monitoring the chatrooms for activity.”

He turned to the new arrivals.

“Aidan, you went with Gabriella to Holywood. Update us on the yacht, please.”

The lanky DCI shrugged in a way that told them that ‘Rathlin’ had proved a dead end.

“It belongs to the head of the yacht club, guv. An old duffer who’s been there for years.”

“Edwin Willis?”

Gabby nodded. “Yes, that’s right. How did you know, sir?”

“I was raised in Holywood and Willis and my dad took me out for my first sail.”

Aidan chuckled. “We should have dropped in on your mum for tea while we were there.”

“You would have been very welcome. She’d have remembered you from sleeping off hangovers on her couch when we were at Queen’s.”

Not being overly fond of reminiscences that he hadn’t been part of, Liam moved them on with a brisk, “Aye, aye, that’s enough about your misspent youths. So, you’re saying the yacht’s a dead end, Hughesy, is that it?” ignoring Craig’s warning squint that said he would get him back for cutting them off.

“Yes. Although, it had everything that we’d predicted; a motorboat with the clearance Gabby had theorised balanced by lifeboats on the other side. But every trip was registered religiously and it was up on a hoist when we arrived undergoing maintenance. Has been since March.”

Craig nodded. “OK, we’ll let the uniforms and CSIs go over it, but it sounds like we can dismiss that one. The warrants for the boats in Cork are ready to go when I signal, but we need to be ready to move on our perps and we’re not there yet.”

He turned back to his head analyst. “Davy, any joy on ID-ing Blackbeard from his photo?”

“Not yet, chief. Sorry. Nothing on the submissive’s ID either. We ran both pics through Irish and British passports and got nothing, so we’re trying driving and fishing licenses. But it takes time.”

Craig sighed with frustration. “The arsons then?”

“Better. You know how I said there were seven kids who’d committed petty crimes locally, and the arsons could have been theirs as well? Well, I’ve narrowed things now. First, they were all boys-”

Liam shook his head. “Wee tykes.”

Aidan snorted rudely. “That’s not what I’d call them.”

“Yeh, well, I’ve managed to locate three of them so far. One’s been in and out of jail on burglary and drugs charges-”

Liam tutted primly.

“- but he’s been in jail since last January, so he’s ruled out. The other two are clean, with no links with the coast or sea. One’s a mechanic at a garage in Dublin now, and the other teaches, wait for it, religion. At a secondary school in Meath.”

Aidan rolled his eyes. “The prodigal tyke made good.”

“Cynic. Anyway, look at you. You used to sleep off your hangovers on someone’s couch and now you’re a pillar of society.”

Craig chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. OK… having a job doesn’t rule them out as killers, Davy, but it makes it less likely that they’d have found the time. Also, there’s no association with the sea and neither of them lives in Cork. So, what about the other four gang members?”

“I’ve got their names and I’ve set the aging-up programme on whatever photos I could find of them as kids-”

“In case one of them is Blackbeard.”

“Yeh. But I couldn’t find pics of them all, chief, and locating them as adults is proving tough.”

Craig considered for a moment then said, “How about trying for sibling checks using the last census?”

The analyst smirked.

“Nice. And if one of them does happen to have a sibling whose name starts with G…”

“We might have found our perps. Do that now, Davy, while I explain to the others why I haven’t lost my mind. Oh, sorry, hang on a minute. First, anything on the records of that ten-year-old arsonist?”

“Sorry, no. I got all this stuff verbally from the fire chief, but there’s real resistance to getting a kid’s criminal record unsealed.”

“Fine. Crack on.”

Craig had just explained ‘G@Freedom.com’ when the analyst sat back from his screen.

“Any luck?”

“Some, but not definitive. Would you believe that three of our remaining four tykes have younger siblings with ‘G’ at the beginning of their names? There’s a Gerard, a George, and a Geraldine.”

Aidan shook his head in exasperation. “What were the bloody odds?”

“With our luck, high. OK, before we abandon number four, who are they and do they have any siblings, Davy?”

“Nope. Raymond Mulcahy, twenty-six, is an only child.”

“I’d still like you to try for all their current addresses.”

“Will do.”

“And, although I’m tempted to rule out Geraldine on the upper body strength required to dispose of the bodies I’m not going to.”

Liam shot him a sceptical look. “Blackbeard and the person in that square were definitely blokes.”

Craig ignored him. “Show us that Galway clip again, Davy.”

As they watched what they had all initially thought was a slight young man enter the Galway City square and approach the Sanders brothers, Aidan gasped.

“Could it be-”

“A young woman? Yes. But is it? I still don’t think so, but does anyone else have an opinion?”

A stubborn, “It’s a bloody bloke!” came from his deputy, but after a moment’s silence a hesitant, “It’s very hard to tell” emerged from the screen.

“Was that you, Ryan? Let me see him, please, Davy.”

The inspector appeared. “I still think it’s a man, chief, but when we think of the tell-tale markers, I’d have to admit that none of them are obvious here. That person’s so slight, and they’re wearing a big jumper because it was cold back in February. And what with their short hair...”

Andy nodded. “It would never have occurred to me if you hadn’t mentioned it, chief, but that could just as easily be a woman as a guy in his late teens. And the upper body strength thing could’ve been down to weight training. There’s a female powerlifter who can bench-press six hundred pounds.”

Craig sighed. He’d been hoping to reduce the number of names from three, but a mistake now could result in one of their perps being ruled out. They needed to try something else.

Davy thought he might have another way.

“I still think we’re looking for a man, chief, considering the way the adverts were worded, but there are two ways we could go to confirm. The submissive’s email responses suggested there were only four in their family, yes? Parents plural, ‘he’, and ‘G’ themselves.”

“Yes.”

“So, a family size of four is one possible filter. But in case we’re reading too much into that, we could use age as a filter as well.”

“Let’s try age first.”

“Right, then, regardless of their gender, the person is that video is young. Younger than Blackbeard. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Well, George McCullagh is twenty, Gerard Eastwood is nineteen, but Geraldine Sturgeon is thirty.”

Liam smirked smugly. “So that just leaves two. Both men. I said it all along.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “You’re an Honest-to-God Guru.”

In truth, the episode had just demonstrated how easily doubt could be sowed in the absence of facts.

“Both younger siblings, Davy? And how about family size for both?”

Davy shook his head. “Yes, they’re both younger brothers, but the family size doesn’t move us on. Both George McCullagh and Gerard Eastwood come from small families. McCullagh was originally one of three siblings, two boys and a girl, but the girl died in a car accident last year so now there are just the two boys and their parents. Four in total. Gerard Eastwood’s family has only ever been four. Two brothers and their parents.”

“Still, we’ve still managed to narrow things a little, so well done.”

Mary decided to be the voice of doom. “Providing that at least one of our killers was an arsonist in their youth.”

It was a wake-up call for Craig and he motioned the immediately objecting voices to be quiet.

“Mary’s right. We based this on a spate of arsons and delinquency in Cork, and on the fact that animal mutilations occurred nearby at around the same time, when Blackbeard would have been young. Hopefully, we’re on the right path, but we need to keep following all our other leads in case we aren’t. OK, Davy, let’s rank the sibling pairs by likelihood now.”

The names of their juvenile gang members and their siblings appeared on screen: Twenty-two-year-old Joshua McCullagh and his younger brother George, twenty, and twenty-seven-year-old Dermot Eastwood and his younger brother Gerard, aged nineteen.

Liam stared sceptically at the names. “Joshua McCullagh’s too young to be Blackbeard.”

“Agreed.”

“But… Blackbeard looked older than twenty-seven to me.”

“Me too, but I have a thought on that. Ash, could you remove all the facial hair from that photo of Blackbeard?”

“Give me a minute.”

“We’ll keep going meanwhile. Davy, instead of just waiting for the Guards to run Blackbeard’s photo against all their databases, give them the names of these brother-pairs and push for images of them. That might speed things up a bit.”

Della appeared onscreen. “I can help with that, sir.”

“Great. Davy will send you whatever we have.”

Just then there was a ping from the analyst’s computer that made him type something quickly and beckon Ash across.

Liam managed a whole ten seconds before saying, “They’ve got something! Look at their faces, boss. What have you got? What is it? What have you found?”

Davy’s droll, “It’s an email from God saying, ‘Liam needs to learn some patience’” made everyone laugh.

“In other words, shut up and let the man do his job, Liam.”

Knowing that the words were Aidan’s without looking, Craig kept watching his analysts’ faces, liking what he saw there.

“It’s an email from the submissive, isn’t it, Davy?”

“Yep.”

A lengthy email appeared onscreen.

“Can’t call. No personal phone and too scared. He’s definitely starting again. I didn’t know until now, I swear. He’s planning another kidnapping for tomorrow. The Mission Football Club in Goleen. Twin boys. He made me walk past that club last week but I didn’t know that he’d chosen anyone. It will happen after late night practice. Look out for a white panel van.”

Craig wanted to punch the air in triumph, but something stilled his arm. As the office grew loud with excitement, he sat frozen and filled with dread.

Liam saw it and leaned in.

“You’re not convinced, boss?”

The detective shook his head slowly. “No… I mean, no, it’s not that. I think what we’re reading is true. Blackbeard wants another fix and he’s already selected his victims. And the submissive is looking for a way out and wants our help. It’s just that…”

The DCS nodded. It was just that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Decades of experience had taught them both that when something seemed too good to be true it often was.

“But we’ll have to cover it, boss. Just in case.”

Craig pulled himself up briskly. “Yes. Absolutely. OK, where’s Goleen?”

Davy already had the answer. “It’s in west Cork, chief.”

Craig frowned quizzically.

Why was Blackbeard abducting in Cork again after months of moving north?

His next words didn’t betray his confusion.

“Right. That club needs to be watched. But it won’t be us doing it.”

That brought an irritated, “What?!” from Mary.

But when Davy dropped the email, he saw that Ryan and Andy were nodding at Craig’s words, joining every detective present in the room. An accumulated century of experience agreed with Craig’s gut.

But the team’s most junior officer still needed convincing.

“Can somebody explain to me why we’re not going to be the ones there closing our case?”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “First, because it isn’t just our case, Mary. All the victims so far have been southern, and four of the bodies were found there. And second, what if what we’ve just read doesn’t take place for some reason? Like Blackbeard changes the snatch site at the last minute, or decides to take different victims? What if he discovers that he’s been betrayed by his brother? Or worse, what if we’ve been conned by the submissive. We need to consider all those things.”

Before she could retort, Craig cut in.

“Well outlined, Ryan. Any of those things could happen so we need to be prepared. OK, Liam and I will draft an approach that takes account of what you’ve just said. Meanwhile, Andy, I’d like your team to watch that stable block.”

“Just watch, chief?”

“For now, yes. Della, can you muster some Guards to relieve you in a few hours? I don’t anticipate the killers visiting tonight, but in case they do we’ll need it covered around the clock. If your men see anything they’ll need to summon you immediately, so best you book into a hotel nearby.”

He turned back to his analysts. “Davy, we need to respond to this message, so think of some words and I’ll come back to you in a moment. Ash, any joy on removing that beard?”

A quick dash back to his desk and the analyst displayed a fuzz-free Blackbeard onscreen, prompting a slow nod from Liam.

“Now, he could be thirty.”

“Or even younger. Twenty-seven isn’t out of reach, considering the skin weathering if he sails. Good work, Ash. Now, get back to your other work and let me know immediately about anything you find.”

“Should I check for new adverts on the twins’ abduction, chief?”

“No… no, I don’t think so. It’s usually a week afterwards that we’d see the first posting, and even if that had altered, with their abduction being tomorrow night time’s too tight to advertise.” He turned to Aidan. “I want you and Gabriella in Cork with us so you’re in position to execute the boat warrants. You’d better go home and pack your bags.”

He sprang to his feet, rattled off, “That’s it for now. Stay contactable, all of you. Davy, join us, please. Nicky, would you make us some fresh drinks?” and headed for his office with his deputy in tow.

Once inside he scrubbed the whiteboard clean and got ready to write, turning to his analyst first.

“Ideas, Davy?”

The younger man was frowning at his smartpad. “This email worries me, chief.”

“Expand on that.”

“Worries me for the submissive, I mean. It feels like there are secrets between the perps now. Look here, where it says, ‘He made me walk past that club last week but I didn’t know that he’d chosen anyone.’”

“Blackbeard didn’t confide in him.”

“Exactly. I mean, he must have known that he was wearing a camera but he wasn’t told that it was more than just a reccy. And it’s sooner than expected. We’d have expected a gap of weeks between the Antrim disposals and a new abduction, but tomorrow will only be five days. This feels like an escalation.”

Liam nodded. “Yeh. And the whole twin thing feels weird too, boss. Like he needs something special to get a kick now. And why back in Cork? He was moving clockwise for both the abductions and the drops, but now he’s returning to Cork. How come?”

Craig reached for his landline. “Hold that thought for a moment. I need an answer from the labs.”

A minute later he had it. One of the Castlerock bodies had been identified. Bobby Garvey, aged seventeen. Taken from Ballina in County Mayo in the first week of January.

“Garvey fits with all the past norms of timing and distance between the abduction and disposal sites, and I think we can assume that his companion will as well. That makes four sets of victims now that followed the same pattern… so yes, Liam, why is Blackbeard suddenly changing things by returning to Cork? It feels ominous. OK, I’ll need to think about that. Meanwhile, Davy, what about that email response?”

“I was going to send some holding words, saying that we’d be acting on his info and doing everything to keep him and his family safe. And we’ll get back to him soon with more details.”

“Good. Send that right away.”

Nodding the analyst out, Craig turned to stare at his blank board, while his deputy moved to the wall and balanced his chair against it on its back legs.

“Right, Liam. In outline, we’re looking at two brothers – agreed?”

He started scribbling on the board.

“Just like I said all along.”

“The older brother, Blackbeard, is dominant and most likely a psychopath. A large, well-built male around his late twenties. Yes?”

“Yep.”

“The younger brother is in his late teens. Shorter, slighter, submissive, and most likely easily subdued.”

“Yep again.”

“They sail or more likely fish out of a harbour in either south-west or south Cork.”

“Yep. But just something on that psycho bit, boss.”

Just at that moment the door opened and Nicky entered with a tray. When she saw ‘PSYCHOPATH’ on the board in capitals, she set it down and reversed out hastily.

Liam picked up his thought.

“On the psycho bit, boss. You’re thinking that all started in childhood, with the animal and arson stuff, then possibly developed during his time cutting chickens’ throats?”

“More that the traits started showing themselves in childhood, Liam. We’re most likely dealing with a born psychopath here rather than one hot-housed by abuse. Otherwise, his brother should exhibit at least some of the same traits, instead of the passivity and regret that we saw in Galway.”

The DCS dropped his chair to the floor with a bang and reached over to pour himself some tea.

“Aye well, I’d be passive too if I’d been Stockholmed…”

The words brought a sceptical glance from his boss. It was hard to imagine anything oppressing his ebullient deputy, short of a ten-ton truck being dropped on his head.

“…but the thing is, boss, this raises the question of what the parents are like, doesn’t it? Terrified and dominated for sure, but also how weak did they have to be to let themselves be made prisoners by their kid?”

Craig cut in. “Weakness isn’t a crime, Liam.”

“Aye well, we can debate the whys and wherefores of that another time. All I’ll say for now is that weakness allows a hell of a lot of bad things to happen in this world. Like respectability. That’s another toxic one. What will the neighbours think of us and crap like that. How many people have let bad shit happen to maintain that façade? The suburbs are full of them.”

Craig chuckled at the social scientist opposite. Liam on a roll was a joy to behold.

“Do you have a specific point, Liam, or are you just putting the world to rights?”

“I have a point; I have a point. It’s this. Whatever kind of people the parents are, they’ll still love both their sons regardless, because that’s the way life is here. Mothers adore their kids to a fault and fathers love their kids’ mother, so my guess is that we’re looking at parents who’ve spent years protecting each other-”

“And their youngest.”

“Him too, against Blackbeard. But they’ll also have tried to protect Blackbeard from the world. They gave birth to him, raised him, and they’re probably still clinging to memories of him as an innocent toddler. Like we all do.”

Craig stilled in surprise. “You think they’re not just keeping quiet out of fear?”

“I think they still love him and families can be very ‘us against the world’, boss. They’ve probably made every excuse under the sun for Blackbeard to themselves. He’s just misunderstood, he’s just got issues, if only he would get some help. You know the kind of lies people tell themselves. Also, they may not actually know what he’s been up to, have you considered that?”

“It occurred to me, but how likely do you think it is? Serious opinion.”

The DCS chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I think… if he’s been clever, and we know he can’t be stupid to have got away with things for this long… I think that it’s very likely the parents know nothing. Oh, they’ll know their first born is a bad lad, all right. Hard to deny that when he’ll have been threatening and beating them for years, and if he set fire to their house as a kid. But if they think he’s up to something now, then the worst is probably counterfeiting or smuggling. There’s a lot of that happening along coasts.”

He nodded slowly.

“Aye… the more I think of it the more I’d say the worst they’d think of him is that he might be smuggling drugs. But I would bet my life that they don’t know the grim truth. And baby brother won’t have told them, because he won’t have wanted to hurt them any more than they’ve already been.”

Craig sighed. “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

“Who did you nick that one from? Confucius?”

“Leo Tolstoy. OK…” He turned back to the board. “I certainly won’t dismiss what you said, Liam, but let’s park it for a moment and risk-assess tomorrow’s abduction.”

He wrote up the number one.

“Scenario one, the perps turn up at the football field to abduct the twins and we swoop and arrest them. Tell me what we need and I’ll write.”

“Ten cops at least with vests and arms, boss. Well hidden, so we’ll need to check the terrain. I’ll sort that with the Guards after this. They’ll need time to requisition weapons. How long do you want them to watch for before they call a no-show?”

“Until the boys are safely in their beds at home. And even then, I’ll want the house observed.”

“Grand.”

“Good. Right, scenario two. Blackbeard switches where he intends to abduct the twins, or changes victims completely at the last moment.”

Liam shook his head firmly. “I can’t see him changing Vics at the last minute. The choosing is part of his ritual, just like taking their jewellery. And pass-up the chance of twins? I bet he can hardly wait to get his grubby mitts on them, the sod. But he might switch venue so we need to be ready to respond.”

“By watching the twins and not just the venue, you mean.”

“Yep. We know that they’re twins and play for the same club, so it should be easy to suss their names and tail them all day tomorrow. Do you want the Guards on that or us?”

“Us for now, but that could change. Get the twins’ names from Davy and I’ll allocate someone as their tail. OK, good. I’ll come to the third scenario in a minute but let’s look at the perps’ secondary location first. If they do manage to snatch the twins, they’ll take them straight to the stables. That’s where I want Andy positioned.”

“Not alone.”

“No, with Della and some Guards. If need be, we can move more Guards from the football club after the snatch to bolster their numbers.”

When Liam began rubbing the back of his neck, Craig knew there was a ‘but’ coming.

“Aye, OK. But…”

Bingo!

“…let’s be honest, boss, the Guards won’t just hand you command of their men, will they? I mean, they’ll want someone in charge on their side. It’s only natural.”

Craig smiled reassuringly.

“We’ll work together but I’ll lead. Don’t worry, Flanagan cleared it with the Commissioner when they spoke. But you’re right that they’ll need to be briefed, so I’ll get their O.C.’s name and do that on the road.”

He turned back to the board and wrote up the number three.

“OK, third scenario. The dominant discovers that he’s been betrayed.”

Liam’s response surprised him, and confirmed that he was ready to become a DCS.

“When? Before, during or after the abduction?”

Craig gave a small smile.

“That’s a very good question. OK… what if I said, if it’s before the abduction, he could kill the submissive, and if during it, he could kill the submissive and the twins?”

The deputy shook his head firmly.

“Nah, he wants those twins. And he needs his kid brother to help him abduct them don’t forget, so even if he already knew he’d been betrayed I don’t think he’d kill him till they were safely back at the stables. Maybe not even then because he’d need his help to dump the bodies.”

“So, you’re saying that he’ll keep his brother alive until after the twins have been disposed of?”

Liam took a mouthful of tea and considered.

“Aye…aye, I think so. He’ll need his brother’s strength until the last minute, so killing him in the cove or at sea after the twins have been dumped makes the most sense.”

Craig nodded. “But I don’t think he’ll keep the twins for a long time, or advertise them, Liam.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe that returning to Cork, homebase, to select his victims, and so quickly after the Antrim disposals, means that he’s devolving. And...” he tapped the board, “if he is and finds out that he’s been betrayed, he could do something unpredictable like kill his brother as soon as he snatches the twins. We can’t let that happen.”

“OK, so if it looks like he’s about to top baby brother, we top him.”

“Agreed. We’ll have armed officers at the football, the twins’ home, and the stables.”

Unexpectedly, Liam pulled a face.

“You’re doubtful?”

“About the stables. Yeh. There’ll be no coppers inside that stable block, boss, and we can’t see through stone walls. What happens if Blackbeard loses it inside? Even if we realise, we’ll only have seconds to get in.”

Craig’s response was to gaze at the floor for several seconds and then scribble, ‘Fibre optics’.

“To give us eyes inside the block? OK… that could work.”

“Eyes and ears. I’ll ask Andy and Davy to liaise with the Guards on the equipment, then our lot and Della can set it up tonight. We’ll need Davy in Cork with us in case something malfunctions, so Ash will have to handle the IT stuff here.”

He was about to move on when his deputy shook his head.

“And if they see something happening? It will still take time to get inside.”

“What’s your solution?”

“Pick the best vantage point on the stables and create a shooter’s gap in the wall. There was long grass around the block in Andy’s photo so a shooter positioned there should have cover, and if Blackbeard looks like popping on the optics, they could drop him though the gap in a sec.”

“Yes. Good. If it’s necessary. Under optics guidance they should have a clear shot. Oh, that reminds me, Liam, make sure that one person at each position is a crack shot. Mary can take the shot at one location. She’s almost as good as Annette and she’s sniper class. The Guards or I can take it elsewhere.”

Craig had completed his sniper training years before and practiced at the range once a month.

“Request that at least two of the Guards are good shots, please, for flexibility. Right, that just leaves us with something happening between our perps before they reach the football field.”

“You mean if Blackbeard discovers the betrayal before they even leave home?”

“Yes. It may sound farfetched but we need to cover every contingency. If that happens, and we’re obviously hoping that it doesn’t, he won’t just kill his kid brother he’ll kill his parents as well. Betrayed, paranoid, and devolving, he’ll then do one of two things-”

“Start a random killing spree or run.”

“Exactly. In fact, thinking about it now, I believe Blackbeard’s already planning to kill his whole family whatever happens tomorrow night. He’ll burn his life to the ground, perhaps literally.”

Liam gawped at him. “Suicide by fire?”

Craig shook his head.

“He might stage a suicide, because he thinks he’s clever and the cops will fall for it, but it won’t be real. He’s a narcissist, Liam. Far too selfish to kill himself. My guess is he’ll make a fresh start elsewhere with all the money that he’s made.”

The DCS said nothing, just rocked his chair back and forth several times making Craig wince. He’d had the rocking habit for years and wrecked more a few chairs and his back in the process.

Then he noticed that the chair was close to the wall and smirked.

“You’re getting old, Liam.”

“Here now, there’s no need for insults!”

“We’re all getting old. Or older? Whatever. But if you prefer, I could say that you’re finally getting some sense.”

The chair legs hit the floor with a thud.

“Explain yourself, man! I’m a fountain of sense, me. Famous for it.”

“Yes well, today that fountain made you place your chair against a wall before you started rocking. You used to just freestyle it in the middle of the room, wrecking my nerves. And don’t take that as a challenge. It’s a good thing that you aren’t taking as many risks.”

The deputy conceded the point with a shrug. “Aye well, Danni told me if I crocked my back again, she’d take the kids on holiday and just leave me to moan.”

Craig chuckled at the Dying Swan tableau the words conjured then got back to work.

“OK, you were clearly thinking great thoughts before I mentioned your chair, so what were they?”

He sat down on his own chair to await the answer.

“Location, location, location, boss. Where Blackbeard would kill his family, I mean. We’ll have the stables covered but we won’t have covered the family home or his boat.”

“Because we don’t know where either one is yet.”

“OK, but when we do, do we set up more armed teams and fibre optics or what?”

“Yes, to the arms, and to the fibre optics if we have time. If he’s devolving things might happen fast.”

“This bastard would probably like us to watch him offing his family, boss. It probably scores you extra points or something in the psycho ranks.”

“Yes, but he’d mind if we killed him because of it, Liam. He would never risk that.”

“Fair enough.”

“But your question’s a good one. The location where he kills his family matters, and thinking it through I don’t actually believe that it will come at home. A house fire wouldn’t be a dramatic enough ending, and it definitely wouldn’t be deniable. He would be the automatic suspect. The surviving family member always is.”

Liam clicked his fingers. “His boat!”

“Yes, yes, that could work. He could kill them at sea after he dumps the twins and call it an accident.”

Liam felt compelled to diss his own idea.

“Nah. He couldn’t think anyone was dumb enough to believe him. Not with the trail of bodies he’s left.”

Craig shook his head.

“Don’t be so sure. The only evidence we have linking Blackbeard to our victims is a low-res image from an accountant’s office, a faint DNA trace, not even enough to tell his gender, and some stuff he may or may not have got up to as a kid. Any lawyer could get that case thrown out, Liam. Remember, the computer trail and all the Dark Web stuff leads to his brother, not him. No, without our submissive testifying in court it will be almost impossible to prove our case unless we catch Blackbeard red-handed tomorrow night.”

“But three deaths at sea would point the finger at him as the only survivor too. Especially a family member.”

Craig shook his head firmly. “His ego won’t allow him to believe that. Remember, he’s got away with nine murders now, so he probably thinks he’s a god. In fact, the more I think about it, the more perfect a murder at sea seems. No bodies to prosecute him with and if he decides to run, he can just set off for international waters.”

Liam sprang to his feet. “We need to find that boat!”

Craig rose as well, but more slowly and deep in thought.

Yes, they needed to find the boat, but they had to be well prepared when they did.

He knew just the men to help with that.

Chapter Eleven

Something had been niggling at Davy since the briefing and now he felt an urgent need to discuss it with his boss, so he decided to hover by Nicky’s desk and intercept Craig before he disappeared off the floor.

The result was that when Liam came hurtling out of the office to dispense orders, he trampled the analyst’s feet.

“OW! Look where you’re going, Liam! I need those toes.”

“Stop whinging and come back to your desk with me. I need to tell you a few things.”

The response was Davy folding his arms stubbornly and refusing to budge.

He would have stayed there anyway because he needed to speak to Craig, but the cavalier way in which Liam had dismissed his injury added an extra layer of determination to his stance.

When the deputy began insisting loudly, Craig heard the ruckus and appeared.

“What’s going on out here?”

Nicky got in first. “Liam squashed Davy’s feet and didn’t say sorry.”

Seeing the word, “Snitch” forming on his deputy’s lips, Craig intercepted before it could hit the air.

“Don’t even think it, Liam. Davy, how are your feet?”

“Throbbing, thanks for asking. But I need to see you, chief. It’s important.”

“Come in then. Liam, you’ve got work to allocate so why are you standing there? And mind where you walk in future.”

The office door closed before the DCS could retort, and with a smug look that she knew would cost her dearly, Nicky returned to her work and Liam was left standing alone.

Craig waved Davy to a seat and made an offer of coffee that he knew would be refused, his hippie analyst always preferring the organic concoction that he brought from home.

“OK, shoot.”

A glance at the board gave the analyst his springboard.

“You need me in Cork, chief?”

“Yes. We’ll need audio-visual work done. Is there something else you need to do here?”

“Yes, actually.”

When the computer expert pushed his hair back from his forehead, revealing his full face for the first time in Craig couldn’t recall how long, he knew that he had something important to say.

“Go on.”

“I’ve been thinking about the Sanders kid.” He gestured at the board. “And what I see there makes it more urgent, because there’s a possibility that one or both of our perps could die tomorrow, isn’t there?”

Craig didn’t disagree.

“OK, then, I’d like to try something before that happens. I’d like to ask our submissive straight out what was done with Felix Sanders.” Seeing Craig’s immediate concern, he held up a hand. “I’d like to finish if that’s OK, chief?”

Remembering the shy, stammering university graduate that he’d met a decade before and seeing his assertiveness now made Craig smile and give the nod.

“OK, what I’m proposing is that I email ‘G’ again saying something like, ‘We’ve found the stables but they’re only useful after an abduction, so as a sign of good faith we need you to tell us what you did with Felix Sanders. Specifically, who bought him and anything you might know about who has him now.’ We’ll probably only get the first name but it could still help, chief.”

He took a deep breath and went on.

“The preferential paedophile Felix is with now probably bought him from that name, so knowing it could give Vice and Trafficking a trail to follow and find the kid.”

He pulled his sheet of hair forward again protectively and sat back to wait for a response.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Yes.”

The analyst’s large eyes lit up. “You’ll let me do it?!”

“I won’t just let you do it, I want you to follow it through with Vice and Trafficking and I’ll leave Gabriella here with you to assist.”

“That’s brilliant!”

“Don’t get too excited, Davy, there’s a real risk to what you’ve proposed. Do you know what it is?”

The analyst frowned. “That the paedo will tip Blackbeard off that someone snitched?”

“Exactly. And that could lead to Blackbeard killing his brother before we have him safe in custody, so the timing is crucial here. You’ll need to sit hard on Vice and Trafficking to get them to follow your schedule, and if they give you any crap refer them to me. So, if ‘G’ gives you a name, and don’t be shocked if it doesn’t come immediately, you’re asking a lot of him, well, then you and Gabriella go to Trafficking personally, direct to Andy White.”

He sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk as he went on.

“Tell him everything that I’ve just said and enlist his support with Vice. I know the Vice team and they’ll want to kick down doors immediately, but Andy’s more patient so he can help you rein them in. We need Trafficking and Vice to delay their swoop on the paedophiles until after we’ve arrested our two killers. After, Davy. That’s very important. I’ll let you know as soon as that’s done.”

Worry etched itself on the analyst’s face. “What if it does go wrong and the paedo somehow tips off Blackbeard before you arrest him, chief? I’ll have killed our submissive.”

“That’s a risk, but,” he indicated the board, “we’ve worked up contingencies to prevent it. Although I’d rather we didn’t have to use them. But as a failsafe, put my number in the email again and tell ‘G’ that at the slightest hint his brother suspects him he’s to find some way of texting me for help, with his exact location. He won’t need a phone for that, he can text from any computer. Liam and I will take it from there.”

He smiled comfortingly at the younger man. “Don’t look so worried, Davy. Just do as I’ve outlined. The buck stops with me so I promise I won’t behead you if something goes wrong.”

“Good to hear. Maggie likes me alive.”

“That’s settled then. But remember you’ll still have your other work to do. And since this means Ash coming to Cork for the A-V stuff now, you’ll need to keep an eye on his Dark Web work as well.”

“I’m already across it.”

Craig smirked. “I thought you might be. Right, you’d better get started then, hadn’t you.”

As the analyst reached the door he added, “Good thinking on this, Davy. Thank you. Every day that Felix is in that paedophile’s hands is another day of hell he’s forced to endure.”

“I just want to do something to help the kid.”

Then he was out the door with Craig following seconds later. “Nicky, I’m off to the ASU then the Armed Support Unit. I’ll be back soon.”

Liam’s ears pricked up. “Am I coming, boss?”

“Have you tasked everyone as agreed?”

“Yep, all except the boy.”

“OK, then quickly brief Ash instead. He’s coming to Cork with us instead of Davy. Explain it’s for A-V work and to write a list of whatever equipment he needs. He should find out what Della can supply at her end, bring whatever else he has handy, and email Theo Sheridan ASAP to arrange the rest. Also, inform Gabriella that she’ll be staying here to help Davy, then make sure that everyone’s packed their bags. I’m heading out for some air. I’ll meet you by the car.”

Chapter Twelve

The Atlantic Ocean. Somewhere on the South-West Coast of Cork. Tuesday, 10 p.m.

The night air was cool, although not as cool as it might have been in late spring, and the white-topped waves rushing for shore north of the village were typically fractious; the beauty of their navy-blue peaks and frothy tips as seductive as it had ever been.

The Atlantic Ocean was God’s gift to the west of Ireland, its centuries of ebb and flow carving cliffs and inlets and all manner of lonely isles, but as the miles of coastal signposts highlighting ‘The Wild Atlantic Way’ advertised, the ocean was untameably wild.

And isolated.

Whereas on Ireland’s east coast, Scotland and more could be sighted on a clear day for company, on its western aspect there was nothing but the knowledge of America over the horizon and thousands of miles of ocean in between. Ocean that could swallow a sailor whole in seconds and hoard his body for weeks.

Joseph Eastwood stood on the deck of his tug and threw his head back, not to howl at the moon but to marvel at the brilliance of the sky above. Without the lights of cities to mask them the constellations were clearly visible and their stars had guided his way reliably all his life.

It was a life that he had loved since he’d set foot on his father’s trawler at fourteen and one that he had pursued for almost six decades, but it had been a hard living with little extra for luxuries and although his Patricia had never complained, a sailor’s daughter herself, he knew that it had been hard on her and their boys.

He shook his head suddenly and vehemently; that was still no excuse for whatever they were up to. But what could he do? He had no details beyond knowing his sons sometimes took the trawler back out after midnight not to return until morning, and no answers were ever given to his questions except, “We’re night fishing, Da, that’s all.”

Hopeful that they were doing nothing worse than selling counterfeit DVDs, or smuggling cigarettes or at the worst illegal fuel, red diesel to save the locals a few quid, he still searched the trawler some mornings, his heart gripped with fear. Seeking clues that might tell him what it had been used for, yet not wanting to find any in case they confirmed his worst fears.

But nary a scrap of anything but fish had he ever found, and any depleted supplies the boys had paid to top up themselves.

And sure, what would he do if he ever did find something? If it was bad? Would he tell their mother? Never. Patricia thought the sun rose and set on her sons, they both did, despite long, hard experience and more bruises on both of them than he cared to admit.

Perhaps they would confide in Father Hanson? But the parish priest would just tell them to pray for guidance like he’d done since Dermot was young.

What then? Without evidence where should he be guided? To the police? To be told that he was a paranoid old man hellbent on living his life suspicious? And what if his reporting got back to Dermot? It was a small village where everyone knew everyone so it would, and then…

The old man shuddered at the thought as he moored his small tug on the jetty, his arthritic fingers fumbling too long with the anchor knot as his mind raced. Would his eldest harm them worse than he had already? The fact that he was asking the question meant that he believed he might.

He’d never been a big man but he’d been a strong one his whole life, hardened by labour and struggle, but Dermot had outstripped him in both height and strength a decade before, and the sharp way he’d said, “Mind your business, Da, and leave me to mind ours” when he’d queried one night trip said that if he pushed too hard familial love might be stretched to a point of no return.

That left him where he’d been for months now and, as he turned from the dock to trudge the short distance home, where he knew he would still be many months from now.

He buried his doubts for a while by admiring the simple beauty around him. The smooth-cobbled path from the harbour to the village green, the narrow front that led past a coffee shop housed in a sixteenth-century building that could never be demolished, protected thank God to save the village’s ‘character’ from developers desperate to cash in on the region’s tourist boom.

Now past the tall, steepled church where he and Patricia had got married and still worshipped every Sunday, its stoic presence since the time of famine a reminder that Ireland still retained faith at its core.

He shrugged sadly; Dermot was long past attending mass now no matter how his mother cajoled, probably long past praying as well. For years he’d hoped that if he couldn’t respect him, he would still respect God, but that hope had faded long ago for Dermot.

Gerry was a different case.

Joseph moved on slowly, nodding to a man he knew, emerging from a pub so far gone that he might have nodded back to anyone. He remembered him as a cheerful youth, straight and tall and eager for living, the joy beat out of him years before when he’d lost his wife.

Then up the short slope to the cottage that had cost them ten-thousand punts three decades before but would be sold for twenty times that when they were gone. A warm, welcoming home, Patricia’s pride and joy, always with an orange tinted light in its front window, its flower boxes tended, and the smell of baking surrounding it for ten feet or more.

As the fisherman scraped his boots on the cast-iron stand by his front door he averted his eyes from a scorched patch on the brickwork beside it, still there despite Patricia’s scrubbing after almost twenty years, a sad signpost to what Dermot might become.

Catching a glimpse of a smile through a curtain’s twitch, he smothered his fears for another night and entered the cottage to enjoy the company of his wife.

****

Bantry Harbour Hotel, South-West Cork. Wednesday, 7 a.m.

Long before Ash and the murder detectives had checked into their hotel the night before, Davy had sent his new email to ‘G’. He was still awaiting a reply, but in the meantime, he had an appointment to see Andy White first thing and a pick-up session scheduled with Theo Sheridan and his southern counterparts on the A-V equipment and another, very special, item that Craig had requested Sheridan’s help in organising in case their case went to hell.

The closer they’d got to the morning the more possible that outcome had seemed to Craig, and after tossing and turning for a few hours he’d finally given up on sleep at five and got out of bed to think, spending the dawn sipping coffee and gazing at the sunrise over Bantry Harbour, and making a mental note to thank his PA for finding such a perfectly situated hotel. He’d asked for one close to both the twins’ football club and the coast and she had come up trumps.

There was no rule that they couldn’t find beauty amidst the ugliness of their work but they seldom did, so he wondered if Nicky had requested the view for him especially, knowing that he needed the lift.

However it had come about, the sun and sea did the trick and made Craig’s mind up about something; taking John’s advice. There was another bank holiday coming at the end of May and, after a quick call to Katy to check, he had booked them into the hotel’s honeymoon suite to spend it there.

A few days near the sea and hopefully even sailing on it, with some pampering treatments for Katy and new restaurants to explore, and they could return to parenthood and work renewed. It was good to be a romantic couple sometimes without having to worry about Luca or the dog ambling in.

Feeling refreshed, Craig left the hotel for a run and had just finished his second lap of the harbour when he felt his phone buzz against his hip.

“Craig here.”

Davy’s normally deep voice was squeaky with excitement.

“G’s answered!”

“Already?”

“Yep. I was as surprised as hell.”

Craig glanced at his watch before he spoke again. “You can’t be in the office already, Davy. It’s only seven-forty.”

“Yeh, I know, but I couldn’t sleep.”

Insomnia was clearly a team sport.

“Do you want to hear what he said, chief?”

“Please. Read it out.”

“Felix Sanders’ buyer was a Frank Norman of 23, The Hills, Ballymena.”

“He’s from the north!”

“Yep. And I’m hoping that’ll make things faster. Anyway, then he said. ‘I don’t know who exactly he would have sold the boy on to, but Norman is linked to a paedophile group called the Sons of Lough Neagh.”

Lough Neagh was the largest lake in Ireland and sat only twenty-five miles from Belfast.

“Damn! A paedophile ring under our own noses. Vice will throw you a party for this, Davy. Did the email say anything else?”

“Yes. He said if his brother finds out he’s been talking to us he’s dead. His brother, chief, he finally confirmed it!”

“A bit late, but good. Did he say he would contact me if that happened?”

“He said he’d try to buy a burn phone and text you like you said, but it would be risky because he was watched all the time. His brother even lurks when he’s on the computer.” He sighed heavily. “It’s a pity he wouldn’t just email us their name and address, chief.”

“Still too scared. I know it isn’t logical, Davy, because if we had their home address we could swoop now and save him, but this guy has been conditioned over years. Decades perhaps.”

“Yeh, I guess. But I don’t know, chief, it felt like there was something else between the lines.”

“Such as?”

“That he thinks it would put his parents at risk too.”

It wasn’t anything they hadn’t suspected.

“I agree, and don’t worry, we’re aware. What about addresses, Davy?”

“I’m on those now. I still can’t locate either of the older brothers but I have found addresses for their younger siblings. They both live along the Cork coast so that’s no decider, but I’m hoping that having that much will persuade the southern authorities to at least confirm whether one of them owns a fishing boat or holds a license to sail one.”

He hesitated for a moment and Craig knew why.

“You’re wondering why I don’t just activate the boat warrants, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeh. We would get the boats’ names and harbours in an hour, and from those find our perps.”

Craig shook his head as he replied.

“Would we, Davy? Or would we risk someone overzealous showing our hand? Hubris and impatience are a risk in all ops, but they’re multiplied when you have two police teams who aren’t used to working together like we have here. All it would take is for some eager copper to decide to watch the perps’ boat or home and show themselves, even for a second. Blackbeard would know that he’d been betrayed and then we’d have dead parents and a dead ‘G’.”

He gave a decisive nod. “No, sorry, I’m not prepared to risk that unless we absolutely have to.”

The analyst conceded graciously. “You’re the one on the ground, chief. I’ll get on with that other stuff. I’m seeing DCS White at nine.”

“Good. Just before you go, Davy, anything on the rose oil or John’s suggested Nazi memorabilia?”

“Sorry, both dead ends so far. The oil is only imported to one place in Ireland, but it’s a wholesaler that trades mostly in cash, so no trail to follow. Or at least, not unless you can give me a week. And there’s a disturbing number of people still fascinated by the Nazis unfortunately, so between the second-hand shops and magazine subscribers that’s going to take a while as well.”

Craig sighed quietly. Nothing was ever easy. Maybe one day a killer would just walk into his office and say, “I did it,” but he wasn’t holding his breath.

“OK. If you hit a wall on that license confirmation, I’ll ask our Garda liaison to lean on them. But right now, forward me ‘G’s email and get yourself some breakfast. This is gearing up to be a long day.”

He picked up his run and two circuits later arrived back at his room to find Liam lounging on the floor outside, his long legs stretched across the hallway.

“New career as a doorstop, Liam?”

The deputy clambered to his feet and followed him into the room, grunting, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Join the club. Davy’s just called me from the office and I’ve been awake most of the night.”

“So, you decided to wreck yourself some more by running?”

“Exercise gives you more energy, not less. Right, I’m off for a shower. Help yourself to tea.”

He emerged ten minutes later to find his deputy dozing in a window seat.

“Wakey, wakey, Liam, and tell me why you’re here.”

“There was a reason, but I just can’t think of it right now. What did the boy call you about?”

Craig repeated his earlier conversation and was interrupted on the, “Sons of Lough Neagh.”

“Fuckers! Ruining a beauty spot with their filthy carryon.”

Craig shrugged. “My guess is it’s wordplay on the ‘Sons of Anarchy.’ They probably think they’re being modern.”

“Well, they’ll cry in prison just the same as the old-fashioned perves do, although why we waste good money housing these paedo bastards defeats me, boss. Let’s just find an island and dump them. We can do airdrops of food and water and leave them to it. They’ll soon die out with no women around.”

Craig chuckled and made him a cup of tea.

“Hanging-Judge-Cullen. It has a certain ring to it. It’s not that I disagree with you exactly, but it would be pretty hard to get that signed off by the courts.”

“Aye, well, they’re wrong. Anyway, do you really think our snitch will be able to access a mobile?”

“I’m not holding my breath. I think we’re safer focusing on our worst-case disposal at sea scenario, if Blackbeard finds out. Anyway, any word on who the Guards have appointed as their commander? I couldn’t get an answer last night.”

Liam clicked his fingers. “That’s what I came to tell you, I remember now. Andy texted me the name. In the middle of the bloody night too! Does he think I sleep with one eye open or something?”

“I doubt he thinks about how you sleep at all, Liam. I certainly don’t.”

He gave a mock shudder.

“I’ll have you know I’m lovely when I sleep, Danni says so.”

“Only because you shut up. Hurry up and tell me the name, will you.”

“Superintendent Joanna Darcy. Seems she’s Della’s big boss.”

“OK, good, so we have a point of contact.”

He poured himself a coffee and took a seat.

“Text Andy back and say I need to see him and the rest of our team in an hour, there should be a conference room downstairs that we can use. Ask him to bring Della along, but she’s to leave some Guards watching the stables. She can take us to meet Superintendent Darcy afterwards.”

“What are we doing about the boat warrants, boss?”

“If you mean, are we raiding them, then no. Not yet anyway. Hopefully Davy will get us G’s and Blackbeard’s address soon anyway. I’ll explain at the meeting.”

****

It proved a forlorn hope. By eleven o’clock Craig’s briefing was almost over, the twins had been named, located and were under distant surveillance, arms had been requisitioned for normally unarmed Guards and A-V had been set up on the stables, but they still didn’t have an address for Blackbeard and ‘G’.

Up in Belfast, Davy and Gabriella had visited Trafficking to inform her boss of their paedophile’s address and the existence of the Sons of Lough Neagh, which had proved more than a mild shock to Andy White.

Before leaving the DCS to do background research on the group and consult with the Head of Vice, Davy had emphasised that they must wait for Craig’s word, via him, before making any move.

In the meantime, checks on haemochromatosis registers had drawn blanks; butting up against the squad’s familiar roadblock, medical confidentiality, even after enlisting John Winter’s help. Still hopeful that Blackbeard’s photo would produce a name, Davy decided to call and update Craig again.

He found him and the others still in the conference room, finalising the details of that night’s coming op.

“Yes, Davy. What do you need?”

“Info first, chief. It’s a no-go on the haemo registers, sorry. We asked Doc Winter to pull some strings but they’re still refusing.”

The detective tutted. “I was hopeful on those. What does that leave us with?”

“The Irish Government is still running Blackbeard’s photo and the agencies are still dragging their feet on the fishing license confirmation. It really only leaves the boat warrants, chief, and tempus fugit.”

Craig considered for a moment.

“Remind me what you have on the boats again, Davy.”

“They’re both fishing trawlers in County Cork capable of carrying five person motorboats.” He paused before adding quietly, “One is called The SallyAnn and the other The Mermaid’s Revenge.”

Craig’s eyes widened. “How did you discover that? We haven’t executed the name warrants yet!”

The analyst swallowed hard. “Yeh, well, Gabby had the idea to call every motorboat showroom on the island and ask if fitting a four-or five-person motorboat to a trawler was even possible. She found a very eager salesman in Louth who thought he was about to make a killing, so-”

Liam had been listening and cut him off. “He volunteered the names of two trawlers that he’d already fitted out. Tell me she didn’t identify herself as a copper, son, for God’s sake!”

Davy responded hastily, “No, no, she didn’t. She was very clear on that.”

“Well, that’s something anyway.”

Craig sighed with relief.

“Look, I know Gabriella was trying to help, Davy, but we can’t use those names. They were obtained without a warrant and we would risk our whole case being thrown out.”

Liam chimed in. “Fruit of the poisoned tree and whatnot.”

“Precisely.”

It was what the analyst had expected to hear so he took it on the chin.

“I guessed that, chief, but I thought I might find what I could on their moorings anyway, and check out the surrounding terrain for surveillance and approaches just in case. Just so we’re ready to go when I get a fishing license confirmed for one of the brothers’ names.”

Craig considered for a moment. “Give me thirty minutes before you do that, Davy. I’ll get back to you.”

He cut the call immediately and made another one to the Garda Commissioner. Gabriella had just bounced him into activating the name warrants, and they would need to discuss that when the case was over, but for now perhaps it was no bad thing. There was rightful caution and there was paralysis, and he knew he’d been veering towards the latter on the boats because of the potential threat to life.

But there was no such thing as a risk-free op, and explaining his concerns to the Commissioner and requesting him to personally activate the warrants for the trawlers’ names might mitigate any threat from over-eagerness. It was a desktop exercise and if carried out by the big boss alone was unlikely to tip their hand.

Within ten minutes Craig had a call-back with not only the names of the two trawlers but the details of their owners, and no-one but the Commissioner knew a thing.

When he phoned his analyst back, he sensed his wariness from hello and rushed to reassure him.

“Don’t worry, Davy, it’s fine.”

The whole gathering heard the analyst exhale.

“I have The SallyAnn and The Mermaid’s Revenge legally.”

“Phew. And the names of their owners, chief?”

The analyst sensed Craig’s ‘no’ before he heard it.

“They aren’t registered under personal names, Davy, just business ones. The West Harbour Fishery owns The SallyAnn, and Cork Dock Fishing owns The Mermaid’s Revenge. Their addresses read like offices not homes.”

Liam shook his head. “Nil desperandum, boss. With businesses the directors’ names are always listed.”

“Davy? Can you get anything from that?”

“Send me the details.”

“Done.”

Liam spoke again. “Don’t hang up for a minute, Davy. Boss, where are those offices located?”

“The West Harbour Fishery’s in McMurtagh Village and Cork Dock Fishing is in Skibbereen town.”

“Where are those on a map, Davy?”

“McMurtagh’s about five miles from you and Skibbereen is about fifteen. Both south-west cork, and Murtagh’s right on the coast.”

“How far from the stables, son? In journey time as well as miles.”

“Give me a minute.” It took less than that. “Skibbereen is just over thirty miles and fifty minutes from the stables, and McMurtagh is fifty-seven miles and eighty minutes.”

“So West Harbour Fishery is further from the lair, boss, but I don’t suppose we can just go on that. It could be a diversionary tactic.”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment then spoke again. “OK, here’s what I think. They might be hiding behind company names and fronts but they’ve still used addresses on the south-west coast, so one of those will where our perps harbour their boat. I’d lay money on it.”

Craig smirked. “Leakage.”

“Aye. The lad might eventually get confirmation of a fishing license in one pair of brothers to nail down their home address, which odds on won’t be far from the sea, but we can get it before then.” He leant towards the phone. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, son?”

They heard a rapid clicking of keys and then Davy’s voice again.

“It’s McMurtagh, chief. They live in McMurtagh Village!”

Craig nodded his deputy to explain.

“The boy can tell you better.”

Davy took his cue. “I’d already located the younger sibling in both pairs of brothers, and their home addresses. One is in the same village, McMurtagh Village, as West Harbour Fishery, the business that owns The SallyAnn. They live somewhere called Morning Cottage, chief. I could confirm everything now by emailing ‘G’ if that’s OK?”

“Send us all of that then go ahead, Davy. Confirm The SallyAnn’s exact mooring slot too, please, down to the last inch, and let me have everything ASAP. But we’ll need to put surveillance on the other office address, The Mermaid’s Revenge when you locate it, and George McCullagh to be safe though. Also, Davy, send me down the clearest photo you have of Blackbeard. Two in fact, plus and minus his beard. It’s time we did a little legwork. And get Gabriella to focus on gun licenses once you have confirmation on the names. Also, can you check The SallyAnn’s transponder data with the authorities. I’d like to know where she is right now. And keep me up-to-date on Trafficking’s progress, please.”

He was aware it was a lot to ask, but the analyst was well able.

“Will do, chief.”

As the line went dead, Liam gave his boss a sceptical look.

“You really think a scrote like Blackbeard would bother with a gun license? You’re a true believer, man. My bet is he’s got a fricking arsenal on his boat and not registered a single piece.”

Craig nodded. He was right, but they needed to cross all the Ts to be sure of winning the case in court.

His next words were solemn.

“We could be in for a siege, Liam.”

The deputy rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Lovely jubbly.”

Before Craig could respond there was a ping and Blackbeard’s photos appeared on everyone’s phones, looking every bit as fierce as they remembered him.

Craig swiped the images away to check the time, then turned back to his team quickly updating their plans.

“Right. While we’re waiting for Davy to get back with some info, you all have ten minutes to change into casual clothes with vests and weapons concealed and get back here. We’re tourists visiting a lovely part of Ireland so dress accordingly. Andy, Aidan, and Mary, you’ll form one group, and Ryan, you’ll join us. Once Davy has confirmed the perps’ home address, harbour, and The SallyAnn’s exact mooring as far as he can, Andy, your team will reccy the house and we’ll cover the boat. Just one quick walkaround to get the lay of the land and photographs only if you can be discreet. We’ll reconvene back at the cars.”

Andy asked a question. “You won’t want us showing Blackbeard’s photos around?”

“Absolutely not. He might have friends locally, so that could result in him getting tipped off and start a shoot-out. I’m more interested in finding where everything’s positioned for tonight.”

Liam played Devil’s Advocate. “And if we do spot Blackbeard, boss? You want us just to walk past? Really?”

“Until I say so, yes. For all we know he could have his parents wired to a bomb that he needs to reset regularly. This trip is surveillance only. Does everyone understand?”

He got mainly nods in return, but the begrudging rumbles from Aidan said that a tight grip might need to be kept on his leash.

Chapter Thirteen

The CCU.

Nicky had no idea why she’d done what she’d done two hours before, but years of experience had taught her to trust her gut and ignore all glances that might insinuate she’d lost the plot.

Even so, as she entered Craig’s small office to give a final polish to the items that she’d placed on his desk, she was starting to question the wisdom of her tactics, a doubt side-lined immediately when a knock came on the door that she’d deliberately shut.

Opening it just a crack she saw Davy standing there smirking, and noted that the sceptical look he’d given her earlier had been replaced by one of admiration.

“Yes, Davy? What do you need?”

The word need, used advisedly instead of want, spoke of a decade of knowing the quiet analyst and knowing that he never bothered anyone unless it had a point.

“Reception just phoned up, Nicky. We have a visitor on the way.”

No name was mentioned nor needed to be, but his subtext of, ‘How the hell did you know they were coming?’ was clear.

How had she known? She couldn’t have answered that even under interrogation, just as she’d never been able to answer her husband when her predictions had similarly come true at home, so often now that he’d taken to calling her Glinda in homage to the good witch from The Wizard of Oz.

The point was she had known what was coming and now she had to play things out, so, setting down the item that she’d been polishing so that it was instantly visible upon entering her boss’ office, she straightened her clothes, plastered on her best greeting smile and returned to her desk, fully prepared for whatever came next.

****

County Cork.

By one-thirty the twins were being tailed by two young officers contributed by Joanna Darcy, their home watched, and the stables wired and watched by other colleagues and Ash. The best shots that Davy could give them at the fishing businesses’ addresses were next, and in the absence of a response to his latest email from ‘G’ they would have to watch both, plus George McCullagh’s home until they’d ruled him and his brother out. Companies House had been trying to confirm names for the owners of both fishing businesses but so far, no joy.

The office address for Cork Dock Fishing was a semi-detached in a spawling housing estate deep in Skibbereen’s conurbation and seemed an unlikely base for people who needed access to the sea, and George McCullagh’s home seemed even more unlikely; a fifth-floor apartment thirty miles inland.

But Joanna Darcy’s troops would watch them anyway, identifying every possible access point to both and concealing Garda officers at vantage points for the rest of the day. The last thing they needed was someone sneaking out to wherever the still missing trawler, The Mermaid’s Revenge, was tied up and causing more deaths.

That just left what Craig felt was the much more likely base for their killers, the address that Davy had for Gerard Eastwood; Morning Cottage in McMurtagh village on Cork’s south-west coast. The village where The SallyAnn moored up.

The murder team’s stroll around it as tourists revealed a quaintness that made many of them consider holidaying there, and Craig and his deputy disgusted at how even the beauty spots of this world were allowed no respite from filth.

Their reconnoitring had also produced multiple snapshots of Gerard Eastwood’s home, a pretty, whitewashed cottage set on a slope overlooking the harbour that made Craig think of holidays spent in Tuscany when he was young. Happy times when he and his cousins had strolled worry-free in sunshine, playfully skimming stones across the sea.

Now the detectives knew all the two-storey cottage’s access points, a front door and a back that opened on to a small, well-mown patch of garden ringed with a high wooden fence, the house mercifully wedged in the centre of a terrace making it an easy venue to watch.

Andy had even managed a photo of the Bean an Tí, the ‘woman of the house’ in Irish, hanging out her washing to dry in the fresh spring air. A grey-curled, sweet-faced, small woman whose warmth the DCI said he’d felt even through his camera. He’d felt something else from her too, weary resignation; as though she had seen too much of life and it had worn her down.

Craig gazed at the image for a moment, shaking his head. “She looks like she has the worries of the world on her shoulders, poor woman.”

Liam nodded. “Well, you would, wouldn’t you, boss, if what we believe about her sons is right. That wee lady’s probably spent decades living in fear.”

Craig peered hard at the woman’s face and then shook his head. “Fear certainly, but there’s more than that here, Liam. It’s… disappointment, yes, that’s it. As if the life that she’d dreamt of had never come to pass.”

“With her boys, you mean?”

“Perhaps-”

He was interrupted by Andy pinching the phone screen until the woman filled it completely.

Craig relinquished the device, knowing that his sharp-eyed DCI has spotted something. After a moment of moving the image this way and that, Andy tutted and passed the device back.

“Look at her arm, chief.”

What he’d glimpsed in a tiny corner of the photograph was now large and obvious to them all. A purple-black bruise peeked out from the sleeve of the woman’s blouse, its darkness saying that it was no more than a couple of days old.

Liam’s sharp, “Bastard!” spoke for everyone. She’d been beaten and they could guess who by.

“What sort of shit hits his mother?”

Craig’s sigh vibrated his whole body.

“It backs up our thinking on the family dynamics, and makes it more likely this is our perps’ home. Well spotted, Andy. OK, let’s move on.”

“Just one more, chief.”

An image of the front of the house was swiftly enlarged.

Craig peered at it questioningly. “What am I looking at?”

“The bottom of the brickwork. Right-hand-side.”

A large, blackened patch lay half-concealed behind a clay planter.

“You really do have eagle-eyes, Andy! That’s a scorch mark.”

“Like someone maybe tried to set fire to the cottage at some point, chief? Our ten-year-old Firestarter?”

“It would fit. Great catch. OK, show me the rest of your photos.”

Images of cobbled streets, churches and pubs came thick and fast. Then more of the village’s small harbour, frustratingly showing no trawlers.

Yes, their killers might call the chocolate-box cottage home and register their business in the village, but they needed definitive proof that The SallyAnn currently sailed from there.

It was Ryan who put the final piece in place when the group had all but given up. An image taken casually on the harbour’s concrete jetty as he’d strolled out to look at the water had caught a nameplate on a wooden tying post.

‘The SallyAnn’.

“Ryan, you’re a lifesaver! This is it! The SallyAnn may not be here right now but this is definitely her harbour. We’re on track.”

The inspector scratched his head, uncomfortable with praise for what had been sheer accident.

“To be fair, chief, I was just taking shots randomly.”

It earned him a shove from Liam.

“Ach, take the praise, man, would you! However you got the photo, you got it.”

“I suppose.”

Craig shook his head at the exchange and moved on. “They’re out at the sea now, that’s clear.”

Aidan nodded glumly. “Doing what is the question?”

“I take your point, but my guess is fishing. We know they mostly pursue their criminal activities at night-”

Andy cut in. “They’ll have to return soon if they hope to abduct the twins tonight.”

“Yes, and that’s to our advantage. Liam, what time are the twins due to play football?”

“Training runs from eight to ten and I’d say the snatch will take place as they’re leaving. I spoke to surveillance and there’s an alleyway from the club to the main road where buses run to their home, so that’s the likeliest spot.”

“Good. Anyone know what time sunset’s at today?”

Mary responded first. “Nine-oh-three. So, by ten it should be decently dark.”

Liam concurred. “And there’s no way that alley will be lit, boss. This isn’t the city.”

Craig nodded briskly. “OK, Andy, get on to Superintendent Darcy and request surveillance on that alley from nine o’clock onwards. The men watching the twins and their home need to stay on them as well.”

While his DCI got to it, Craig returned to the photographs of the harbour. It looked just like small harbours everywhere with its mixture of sailing and working vessels; the sloops’ colourful sails contrasting with the grey-metal utility of the others like day and night. The ratio was one to three in favour of the latter, saying that this was still a working harbour and that people in the village probably relied on the fruits of the ocean to survive. For how much longer, he wondered. When would tourism and city dwellers’ desire for holiday cottages drive prices so high that the local young could no longer afford to stay?

It was a sad thought and not a useful one right now, so he pushed it away and turned to gaze at the real harbour in the distance.

It had a long, thin, concrete jetty leading out to sea, with boats moored on either side and a portacabin office landside that undoubtedly sheltered a harbourmaster during the day.

Combining photos revealed that The SallyAnn’s mooring was near the sea end of the jetty. An adjacent slot sat chained and empty, leaving only one other boat, a small cutter, alongside.

Good. Less chance of collateral damage if they were forced to swoop there, although he had a feeling that wouldn’t happen. Villains like Blackbeard were predators, and like all predators they could sense when danger was close and would either fight or run. His money was on the latter.

With that at the forefront of his mind, Craig turned back to his team.

“OK. We have the cottage, the harbour, and the sea. Let’s consider the harbour first. We can close off the jetty landside easily with just a few men.”

He turned one of the photographs around for everyone to see.

“This portacabin can conceal two or three officers, and I’d like one to be a nominated shooter...”

Mary perked up.

“…yes, I recall you doing the advanced training, Mary, but not how recently you re-certified.”

“I’ve kept my skills up.”

“When was your last visit to the range?”

“Two weeks ago. I got brilliant scores.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Modest, aren’t you.”

“I could prove it by shooting you, if you’d like.”

Craig waved them down.

“That’s enough, you two. OK, Mary, sort out your equipment with Della. You and Ryan will be in the harbourmaster’s hut. Ryan, find out how you can get the key without the master knowing. I don’t want him tipping off our perps.”

“Surely we can just pop the lock, boss.”

“And what if there’s a padlock or keypad? We’d have to smash the door or a window and that would give us away. Plus, I’m not footing the bill for repairs.”

Della raised a hand. “The nearest fire station will have keys and codes for all local business premises. They’ll give me whatever I need with no questions.”

“Excellent. You see, Liam. Brains over brawn.”

“Huh.”

“OK, you sort that, Della. But make up a good reason why you need it. Suspected burglars around or something. Everyone probably knows each other locally and we can’t risk the harbourmaster or our perps getting tipped off.”

She gave him a small salute.

“OK. The jetty. If needed a couple of us can seal the land end with cars, to stop our perps leaving or returning to The SallyAnn.”

Aidan looked at him sceptically. “That’s if the trawler returns today, guv.”

“Yes.”

Craig’s tone sounded so resigned that it took his deputy aback.

“You don’t think they will! You think they’ll stay at sea?”

“No, I don’t actually. But experienced mariners can tie up anywhere, Liam.”

Which was why his discussion with Theo Sheridan the day before had been so important.

“OK, Andy, check the surveillance on the twins at intervals. Aidan, do the same at the stables. Mary and Della, get that rifle sorted and get the key to the hut.”

“Now?”

“Yes, because time flies, and…”

He tapped the photograph to enlarge the ‘Office hours – 7 a.m. to 3 p.m.’ sign displayed on the portacabin’s door.

“Oh, right. You want us in there ASAP.”

“I do, but not before we have a final briefing.” He checked his watch. “Back at the conference room in ten minutes, so off you go. Let’s head to the car, Liam. You call Theo and make sure everything’s sorted while I contact Davy again. Then I need to do something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

As the detectives headed for their respective vehicles, they missed an elderly man steering his small boat to harbour and anchoring it in the chained slot beside The SallyAnn’s before wending his way slowly home, he thought for the evening.

But Joseph Eastwood’s eldest son had a different idea of how his parents would be spending their night, a far less pleasant one.

****

The CCU.

If it had been a staring contest Nicky would have won, but it wasn’t because only the secretary was aware that she was thinking it and without two active participants contests were no fun.

Davy watched with interest as that reality dawned on the PA and waited to see what she would do next, the icy politeness of her earlier greeting to their guest now replaced by an awkward silence and tension that he almost couldn’t bear.

It was broken suddenly by Nicky rising to her feet. “So, you would like to see Assistant Chief Constable Craig?”

Each syllable of Craig’s title was enunciated crisply when normally his guests were lucky to hear a quick ‘A.C.C.’ and more often ‘ACC’ was pronounced like a word.

‘ACC Craig’: sounding like a dismissive ‘ACH Craig’, when his PA was pissed off at something that he’d done.

But that wasn’t enough for this guest; certainly not now.

Opening Craig’s office door slowly so that she could savour the full effect, the secretary continued, “I’ll need to ring around to find him, so please take a seat in his office and I’ll bring you some coffee,” staring at their visitor’s face intently in case her expression changed.

DCI Julia Thomas’ reaction didn’t disappoint. As she went to step into the office her face fell and she almost physically recoiled, making Nicky rush to stifle a smile. The cause of the detective’s reaction was clear; facing her on Craig’s desk were two ridiculously large, framed, colour photographs: one of Craig and his new wife on their wedding day, and another of him, Katy, and Luca in a laughing family group.

Davy watched from his desk stunned as the door closed so sharply behind the DCI that he pictured her being propelled headfirst across Craig’s desk, and then as Nicky sprinted past him into the kitchen to reappear less than a minute later with what had obviously been pre-prepared refreshments set out on a tray.

She disappeared quickly into Craig’s office and reappeared empty handed seconds later, shooting the analyst a warning look when she saw his mouth open and raising a finger to her lips.

After a great show of phoning around for Craig’s whereabouts, Nicky then re-entered the office and said, so loudly that he could hear, “I’m sorry but it appears that the As-sis-tant Chief Con-stab-le has been called to the south on his case. I really must have words with him for not informing me.”

A quiet, “Thank you” was followed by Julia almost sprinting off the floor.

The analyst was on his feet immediately and waiting by the PA’s desk when she reappeared with the tray, and as soon as the lift had departed for reception, he said, “Nicky!” chastisingly, removed it from her hands and shook his head in disgust.

“What did you say to her, Nicky? You’ll be in deep shit with the chief if you were rude.”

The secretary pursed her lips primly. “You heard every single word that I said, Davy Walsh, and were any of them less than polite?”

“That charade of phoning round was! You knew fine well the chief was in Cork and you should have told Julia as soon as she arrived.”

She feigned innocence. “How was I to know that he hadn’t returned? He doesn’t tell me his every move.”

But Davy was having none of it.

“And all that As-sis-tant Chief Con-stab-le nonsense. It was farcical, Nicky. Talk about overkill.”

As he was speaking, the PA noticed that she’d left the office door ajar and tried to close it surreptitiously with her foot, but the analyst spotted her move immediately and grabbed the handle, shaking his head.

“Oh no, you don’t, Madam. There’s obviously something in there that you don’t want me to see.”

After a tussle that ended before it had started, he pushed the door open wide, revealing the photographs in their full glory and making him gawp.

Brazen to the end, Nicky said, “Oh, that’s where my photos went” and went to grab them off the desk.

Davy got there first.

“Where did you get these? The chief didn’t even tell us that he’d got married so you definitely didn’t take this one yourself, and,” he waved them both in the air, “there’s no way that he’d display personal photos at work anyway! And definitely not these! Any bigger and they would be on the side of a bloody bus!”

When she puckered her lips and refused to answer his eyes widened in realisation.

“You got them from his mum! What did you tell her, Nicky? Did you tell her that Julia was after him? He’ll kill you if you said that, and Katy will be next in line.”

The lips unsealed hurriedly and, “I didn’t even mention Julia to his mum. I wouldn’t in case it got back to Katy and hurt her” came rushing out.

She looked coyly at the ground. “I might have said that I was making a nice slideshow for his birthday in June.” She looked up again sharply, “And you can’t tell her any different or he’ll never forgive me! Swear you won’t, Davy. Swear.”

When she accompanied the last word with an ominous glance at her stapler, the analyst started to laugh.

“Or what? You’ll staple me to death?”

“Give me back the photos, Davy, they’re mine!”

“Nice frames. Expensive, I should think. I think I’ll just hold on to them for a while.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

He walked to his desk and locked the photographs in the top drawer, turning the key with an unnecessarily dramatic twist. Then his playful tone changed to a more serious one.

“Honestly, Nicky, what part of you thought that this was a good idea? And how the hell did you even know Julia was coming?”

“I just had a feeling about it. She’s that sort.”

“What sort? Julia was always nice to you.”

“That’s as may be, but she was always bolshie and that doesn’t change.” She twisted a strand of her hair defensively. “Look, Davy, she’s after the A.C.C. and we all know it, so would you rather that I’d done nothing, they’d had an affair and he’d ended up divorced?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’d rather you gave the man a bit of bloody credit for being an adult and let him handle his own affairs!”

“You just said affair! You think it would have happened too!”

“I didn’t mean it that way and you know it.” He fell into his chair with a sigh. “Honestly, Nicky, what am I going to do with you?”

Sensing a softening, the PA sidled towards him.

“You’re going to give me back those photographs so that I can take them home. Then I’ll do what I told his mum I was going to, put the images on slides. Now, while you think about that, how about a nice cup of tea?”

Davy gave an exasperated laugh. That was exactly what he would end up doing and he knew it. But not until he’d had his tea. And a piece of cake.

They were biting into some when their desk phones rang simultaneously.

Davy picked his up, already knowing who it would be.

“Yes, chief.”

“I won’t ask how you knew it was me, but I will ask if there’s any joy on the fishing license.”

“No calls, but let me check my emails.”

A long moment later he said, “We’re in luck. They’ve just emailed me confirming that Gerard Eastwood has one. Also, there’s another email here about Joshua McCullagh. It turns out he and his brother George emigrated to New Zealand four years ago. The apartment address I gave you must have been old. Sorry.”

“Not a problem. The important thing is that the McCullagh brothers aren’t our perps.”

“Looks that way.”

“Anything on the other trawler?”

The analyst’s eyes widened as he realised that he’d forgotten to call his boss with a piece of information that had come in thirty minutes before. That was what he got for letting Nicky’s shenanigans distract him.

“Yes, sorry, chief. I was just going to call you about that. The navy has located The Mermaid’s Revenge off the coast of the Isle of White. They were delivering fish there and their logbook and eye witnesses confirm that they’ve been moored up for most of the day. What do you want me to do next?”

“The skipper and crew will need to be held temporarily, but they’ll come under UK jurisdiction, so-”

The analyst cut in, eager to make up for his mistake.

“Leave it with me, I’ll organise everything. I presume you just want them held to help with enquiries, no charges?”

“Exactly. If things pan out as I think they will then we may be releasing them in a few hours. Excellent work, Davy. Just confirm Gerard Eastwood’s address for me again.”

“Morning Cottage, BlackTree Lane, McMurtagh Village. And that’s just been confirmed in an email from ‘G’, Gerard Eastwood, as well. But before you go, chief, whoever this licensing officer is has sent me more than I asked for. It turns out that a Dermot Eastwood and a Joseph Eastwood of the same address also have licenses to fish-”

Liam had been listening and cut in. “That’s Blackbeard and their Da.”

“Looks that way. But the father’s license isn’t a commercial fishing license, chief. He relinquished that last year.”

“So, he retired and left working the trawler to his sons. What’s the mother’s name, Davy?”

“Give me a second.”

He came back quickly with, “Patricia Eastwood née Lacey. They’ve been married since ninety-three. Two sons, as we thought.”

“And the family trawler is The SallyAnn. We saw its mooring at the harbour-”

Liam cut in.

“Is it worth checking with hospitals on the mother’s abuse, boss?”

“We will, but after everything is over, Liam. I’m not even sure she’d have told anyone that it was happening.”

Davy came back on the line. “The Eastwoods’ mother’s been abused?”

“We believe so. Most probably by Blackbeard, Dermot Eastwood. OK, Davy, run those names for up-to-date photos just to confirm. The SallyAnn’s not in harbour now, but you emailed Gerard Eastwood at what time?”

“As soon as you asked. His reply is timed at ten minutes ago.”

“Good. It’s unlikely that he sent it from The SallyAnn. His brother might have read it in the confined space of a boat and he wouldn’t have risked that. They must have tied up somewhere to stretch their legs-”

Liam cut in. “They aren’t at the stables. I just checked.”

“Somewhere along the coast. Any joy on the transponder signal, Davy?”

“No, sorry. It’s been off all day.”

“Sure sign that Blackbeard’s planning something, boss.”

“Yes. OK, one last thing, Davy. Theo gave me a WI-FI camera before we left and we’re just heading back to attach it to a post at the harbour’s entrance now. I’ll need you to livestream the images and let me know if the brothers return.”

“Fine. Give me its serial number and I’ll arrange the relay.”

As Craig passed on the information, he signalled his deputy to start the car, and after a quick trip to the harbour and some serious tech magic, Davy had a real-time-view on one of his screens.

“I’ll shout if anything important happens, chief.”

“Good. Now, update me on Gabriella and Trafficking, please.”

When they arrived at the hotel carpark, Craig noticed his deputy giving him a dirty look.

“What’s that for?”

“For not telling me that Theo gave you a camera.”

“I wasn’t sure that I would use it. Anyway, you know now, don’t you, so stop huffing. I can’t give you a blow-by-blow account of my thoughts, Liam, or we’d get nothing done!”

As he exited the car there was a disparaging, “Huh!” followed by, “Anyway, there’s something that I was thinking.”

“Amaze me.”

“I just might. OK, here it is. Where was the Da?”

Craig had started walking towards the hotel but the words stopped him in his tracks.

“What?”

Liam leant on the roof of his car as he went on.

“Davy said he gave up his commercial license, so he’s hardly out at sea with his boys. But we only saw Mrs Eastwood at the cottage, so where was the old man?”

“Probably inside the house somewhere. Why? What are you thinking?”

“That if Blackbeard’s going to kill his family, he isn’t going to kill them piecemeal. He’s going to do them all at once. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Ah… so you’re saying the trawler will return and he’ll head to the cottage to grab his parents. Except that we have no proof he’s going to kill them today, Liam.”

The deputy rolled his eyes.

“Ach, boss, we have a psycho who’s devolving, your words, and a younger brother who’s clearly reaching the end of his rope. Even if Blackbeard doesn’t catch him emailing us, he’s bound to sense something’s up. He’s that kind of animal. It’s a tinderbox situation now, which means one wrong word and it could blow. And you know it’s coming or you wouldn’t be having Mary and Ryan hide in a shed all afternoon.”

When Craig smirked, his deputy decided to close his sale.

“OK, I’ll lay you a bet. If no-one turns up at the football field by nine-thirty those twins aren’t gonna be snatched from anywhere tonight, but the Eastwood clan will soon be dead.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“Not to wait to find out. Yes, Davy is on the live-cam now, but put everyone on the village as soon as you’ve finished this brief.”

“And us?”

“At the airfield, because if I’m right we won’t have a minute to waste later on.”

He had just recited Craig’s intended script for the next half-an-hour.

Chapter Fourteen

McMurtagh Village. 12 a.m.

Liam wasn’t wrong, although for a while it had looked as if he might be. There’d been no sign of The SallyAnn or the Eastwoods on the harbour live-cam and no movement at all at the house. In fact, as dusk turned to night and then darkened to jet, there was nothing but eerie silence in the fishing village, as if even the cobblestones sensed that something was seriously amiss.

Elsewhere, their teams and efforts had come to nothing.

Or perhaps it was wrong to say that. It wasn’t nothing that twin teenagers had completed their football practice uneventfully and were now sleeping safely in their beds, although still under the watchful gaze of the Guards.

Lives saved, even by a murderer’s omission, were still safe lives.

But that night’s abduction had clearly been cancelled, so why?

It left Craig with a dilemma. With no sign of the Eastwoods’ trawler and no text from Gerard for context, the brothers could just be night-fishing; or, something could be seriously amiss.

He had to decide which.

At midnight, Craig signalled his DCIs to enter the cottage and got his answer. The small, neat home that the pair had been watching for hours was empty; Patricia and Joseph Eastwood nowhere to be seen. There was no earthly way that the couple could have got past two experienced detectives, which only left one possibility. In the short time they’d spent briefing that afternoon, Dermot Eastwood had moored somewhere close to the village, slipped from his boat, and spirited his parents away.

He could waste precious time moaning about it, but waste was exactly what it would be, so instead, by twelve-thirty and with no text from Gerard Eastwood, he, Liam, and others were airborne in the helicopter that Theo Sheridan had arranged with the Irish coastguard as requested and heading swiftly out to sea.

Meanwhile, Craig had assigned new tasks. Ash was on satellites and Davy was monitoring The SallyAnn’s dead transponder, ready to pounce if by some outside chance it turned back on. Mary and Ryan were circling the harbour on the Guards’ patrol boat, his constable ready with her weapon, and Aidan and Andy were scouring the village in the very faint hope that the older Eastwoods might still return.

But they wouldn’t and Craig knew it. This was a psychopath’s endgame and that deserved drama, didn’t it? And there was nothing more dramatic than the sea.

As the helicopter scanned the coast from Dingle down to Kinsale, each of its passes higher and wider, the wind was whipping up and growing heavy with rain and the waves below them had turned vicious and high.

Liam refused to look down at the water for more than a few seconds, his hatred of flying not so much from a fear of crashing as an abiding love of dry land. Craig on the other hand was as fascinated as ever with the sea. He found its undulation mesmerising even on a calm day and this was so much more than that.

A sudden call from the pilot broke his trance. “We’ll need the searchlights soon, sir. This darkness is dense.”

Craig yelled over the noise of the rotors. “Hold off for as long as you can. Anything on radar?”

“A blip around ten miles due-west. I’ll know more as we approach.”

Tensing for what he knew was coming, the detective turned to check on his companions: Liam, ballooning in his Kevlar and life jacket, flanked by two Irish military divers in wetsuits and a medic who was well-equipped. It was best to be prepared.

He lifted the Heckler & Koch HK417 marksman’s rifle that he’d set at his feet when they’d boarded the copter, and said a quiet thanks to the Armed Support officer who had supplied him with the weapon the day before.

It was the model that he’d used for his sniper training and very familiar, so he was glad that Sean Flanagan had granted permission for him to bring it to the south.

Taking his position, Craig swiped the rain from his eyes and lined up the rifle’s sights on the ocean below, watched by his deputy.

“It’s just as well you took that sniper course, boss. I’m not sure anyone sensible would have fancied this trip.”

Craig smiled tightly. He’d certified as a sniper reluctantly, reluctant because it was yet another way to kill; a desperate last resort.

But he was resigned enough to the evil in the world to know that sometimes the last resort was necessary to protect the good.

“Check everyone’s vests again, Liam. We still don’t know if Blackbeard has a gun.”

The DCS huffed and puffed as he performed the task.

“I feel like the fricking Michelin Man in all this gear! I can hardly move.”

“Better that than dead. Now, be quiet, I’m trying to concentrate.”

He got less than a minute to do so before the pilot called out again.

“I’ve got a definite shape on radar, sir. It’s a boat! A big one. And no bloody transponder.”

Liam shook his head. “It’s been off all day.”

Craig yelled from his position by the copter’s side door. “Can you get us closer?”

“Moving now.”

Craig wasn’t sure what was going to greet them when The SallyAnn came into view but he knew that it wouldn’t be pretty. If Dermot Eastwood had snatched his parents, then the whole family was on board and at risk.

He tutted noisily; he should have had the cottage watched from the moment they’d first entered the village, not waited.

Liam read his mind. “We couldn’t have done more, boss. Putting surveillance on the cottage carried risk as well. Blackbeard could have spotted it and killed his folks on the spot, or he could’ve killed them before we arrived today. Any time in the past year, for God’s sake.”

Craig would still beat himself up when he had time.

Another call from the pilot meant that he hadn’t right now.

“It’s just below us, sir, and there’s activity on deck.”

Angling his rifle almost vertically, Craig swallowed hard and yelled, “HIT THE LIGHTS.”

A second later he almost wished that the pilot hadn’t because of the sickening scene that greeted their eyes.

It was clear now why Gerard Eastwood hadn’t texted him; not only was he bound, his wrists locked together with wire that they could only hope wasn’t razor, but he was suspended by those wrists on a hoist high above the trawler’s deck, his legs dangling precariously in mid-air.

He wasn’t alone. Similarly bound and hanging were his elderly parents, both of whom looked unconscious and had rags stuffed in their mouths.

But the pièce de résistance, if the macabre tableau could be glorified with that term, was the heavy-linked metal chain looped around all three of their waists, binding the trio both together and to a large, iron anchor lying flat on the deck below.

Liam’s astonished, “Fuck me!” was almost drowned out by the sounds of waves and rotors, but everyone in the aircraft was similarly aghast. Everyone but Craig, who had gone straight past shock and disgust to strategy and was scouring the boat’s deck and wheelhouse for his prey.

He caught only glimpses of Dermot Eastwood as he ducked from bow to stern and port to starboard with an owner’s familiarity, the helicopter struggling to hold against the windshear and hampering Craig’s ability to follow him accurately at speed.

Still the detective kept his eyes glued to the vessel, seeking one small gap that would let him end the standoff, because a standoff was what it was. He knew his beasts, and Dermot Eastwood’s family were just playthings to him now, any façade of loving them abandoned and his true, unfeeling psychopathy completely revealed.

He’d known deep down that it would come to this, just as surely as he knew what was coming next. But it was how abruptly it came that surprised Craig, although not enough to make him blink.

A short dash behind the motorboat for cover and Eastwood was in The SallyAnn’s wooden wheelhouse, his head ducked deviously below its window. He must have been kneeling from the hand that appeared suddenly at waist height to press a button, a hand that Craig had been expecting and aiming for and now hit, drawing blood and causing its hasty withdrawal, but not so hasty that Dermot Eastwood hadn’t managed his task.

“Good shot, boss.”

“Not good enough to stop him. Get those divers in the water, Liam.”

“Why?”

“He’s just moved the hoist.”

On cue, they heard the whirr of a winch and the hoist began to move laterally across the deck, trailing with it three members of the Eastwood family. In a moment they would all be dangling over the sea.

As the divers hit the water, Craig kept his eyes firmly on his prize. One more gap… that was all he needed. Just big enough for a bullet to squeeze through and disable the bastard. They could take it from there.

But animals never wait passively to be attacked and this one was no different, retreating just far enough inside the wheelhouse to nurse his wounded hand and prepare for his next move.

Every one of them knew what it would be; lowering his family into the ocean. But only Craig knew exactly how it would be done.

As soon as they’d discovered the names of their two trawlers, he had asked Davy to pull their plans. His final pre-op coffee, which seemed days ago now, had been drunk while poring over and memorising each boat’s structure and functions, and there was something special about The SallyAnn’s.

It had an old-fashioned anchor.

Although the hoist was controlled by button, the anchor still operated by lever, and failure to coordinate the two things properly would mean the anchor refusing to lower and drag the Eastwoods down to their deaths.

Craig shifted his aim, no longer seeking a human target but the boat’s control panel, and with two sharp shots he smashed the anchor’s lever to bits.

It brought a roar that they heard five-hundred-feet above and a wild shot in retaliation, confirming that Dermot Eastwood had had a weapon all along.

A second, more targeted bullet flew so close to Craig’s ear that he felt the breeze. Then he heard it strike something behind him, and, recognising instantly that it wasn’t the sound of metal on metal, turned quickly to find his deputy on the floor with the medic kneeling anxiously over him.

“Liam! Where are you hit?”

A gasp and his deputy’s face appeared, looking even paler than it normally did.

“It’s just my shoulder. I’m OK.”

A glance at the medic said it was the truth, so with fresh focus Craig returned to his task.

Dermot Eastwood had used the brief interlude to resume his hunched posture in the wheelhouse. His head was low but Craig could tell from the movement of his right shoulder that he was working on the control panel. He was trying to wire the lever and lower the anchor that way!

The hoist was dangling above the sea now, with Gerard Eastwood kicking furiously in mid-air, the waves so violent and hungry that they were almost biting at his feet. All it would take was a second’s connection and the anchor could start to lower, taking the family with it to the deep. If that happened then even their divers’ fastest actions might fail to save their lives.

He couldn’t risk it, so Craig did what he’d been dreading doing but now was sure the situation required. Instead of aiming his weapon to disable Dermot Eastwood, he got ready to kill.

Holding his breath and narrowing his gaze he focused on Eastwood’s right shoulder, easing a single shot into the bone where it joined his arm. Then, waiting barely a second for the killer’s instinctive search for the bullet’s source, he aimed an inch below Dermot Eastwood’s hairline and squeezed off two more shots in sequence, praying for an accurate hit.

The blood spraying the wheelhouse window seconds later told Craig that he’d managed it, but he kept his finger on the trigger just in case. If Eastwood moved again then he was ready to put more shots into his torso through the enclosure’s wooden wall.

Only when nothing had moved for a ten count and the hoist’s position remained unchanged did the detective let himself exhale.

After another few beats, he called out again to his deputy.

“Can you sit, Liam?”

A grunt said yes and the DCS shuffled forward.

“OK, keep your eyes on the deck while I go down there. Aim this rifle at the wheelhouse.”

“It’s just as well I’m right-handed, isn’t it. That bastard did for my left.”

But Craig barely heard him, focused on clipping himself into the helicopter’s hoist.

A minute later he was on the trawler’s deck with his Glock drawn, working his way stealthily along the deck to see if his enemy was down and out, and if not, ready to complete the job.

A quick check said that Dermot Eastwood was well and truly dead, but Craig didn’t hang around to admire his work, instead operating the winch carefully and only breathing easy when the three surviving Eastwoods were safely back on deck.

The next hour was a blur, with the medic on board checking the, thankfully all still alive, Eastwood family members and the divers steering them back to harbour on the trawler, albeit with younger son Gerard in cuffs and his brother heading for the morgue.

****

It was six a.m. before the Belfast detectives got a chance to gather themselves. In the hotel bar, kindly opened for them in acknowledgement of the successful op. Word travelled fast.

Craig sipped slowly at his whisky and watched as his freshly-bandaged deputy went much more vigorously at his.

“Should you be drinking that after an anaesthetic, Liam?”

“Ach, sure I only needed a local. The bullet went straight through the muscle. I’ve barely got a scratch.”

“It sounded a lot worse than a scratch.”

“Nah, it’s fine, boss. The slug’s probably in the helicopter somewhere, so I suppose I should ask someone to look for it.”

“No suppose about it. We’ll need it as evidence.”

They returned to their drinks for a moment and then Liam spoke again.

“Nice shooting by the way.”

Nice shooting was an oxymoron in Craig’s opinion, but he knew what he’d meant.

“It was necessary, and that’s the best I can say about it. Anyway, what time is it?”

The deputy rolled his eyes at the change of subject and glanced at a nearby clock.

“Not far off seven. Why?”

“Do you think it’s too early to call Andy White?”

“It is if you want to keep him as a friend. Try to relax, man. Drink your drink.”

The entreaty worked for a whole minute then Craig spoke again.

“That bandage will look good at your DCS Board. Wounded warrior and so on.”

Liam shrugged. A sudden searing pain told him that it hadn’t been a good idea.

“That’s weeks away, boss. The bandage will be off by then.”

“Keep it on. They might go easy on you.”

The words brought a chuckle.

“I might just do that. Anyway, speaking of going easy, what’re you planning on doing with Gerard Eastwood?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what he says when we interview him at ten o’clock. The Commissioner’s giving us first crack at him.”

“Result!”

The conversation was cut short by the rest of the team filtering in, all looking like they’d slept in their clothes, and the next hour was a mix of breakfast, booze, and bantering post-mortem.

At eight, Craig got on to his chief analyst to arrange the release of The Mermaid’s Revenge, and at eight-ten, unable to wait any longer, he called his Trafficking counterpart.

One hour later, Andy White was leading a combined team with Vice on three raids.

The first was to the home of Frank Norman, trader in children; Andy wanted to spit in his eye, but instead he prayed silently that the paedophile would resist arrest so he would have an excuse to ‘subdue’ him. But Norman came quietly, and so calmly that it was clear he’d been preparing for an occasion just such as this, probably for years. Andy had to make do with applying the cuffs just a smidgeon too forcefully and focused on biting his tongue when the inevitable, “I’d like to speak to my solicitor” hit the air.

The second raid was to the age-preferential paedophile that Norman had sold the boy to, who just happened to be the head of the toxic Sons of Lough Neagh. They found Felix Sanders in his garage surrounded by woodworking tools; chained to a workbench, withdrawn and trembling, but thankfully still alive.

None of the officers present missed the chance to inform their captive exactly what happened to child abusers in jail, one with such spectacular relish about what inventive use could be made of the implements from prison workshops that Andy thought the man should write a book.

The third raid was to the Sons of Lough Neagh’s empty headquarters; a semi-derelict cricket pavilion set on private land near the Lough itself, the owner of which would be receiving a visit very soon.

The computers and papers seized would bring down the whole sick club and lead to multiple arrests over the following fortnight, but Craig and his deputy knew none of that when they entered the Garda Station that morning to interview their man.

Gerry Eastwood was a mess. A filthy patchwork of oil and dirt, the only clean thing about him was the smell of the ocean, which hung around him like cologne.

As the detectives took their seats opposite the still-cuffed prisoner, the next thing that struck Craig was how young he looked. He knew that Eastwood wasn’t yet twenty, but with his slight frame and tousled hair he looked more like mid-teens. No match for his bruiser older brother who they’d laid out on deck.

His youth was emphasised further by a wide grin that he’d been wearing since they’d entered.

Craig was just wondering about it when the custody officer read his mind.

“He’s been grinning like that for hours, sir. I’ve no notion why.”

“Let’s ask him.” Craig turned his full gaze on their captive. “Mister Eastwood, you must know that you’re in deep trouble, so may I ask why you’re smiling?”

The answer came in a light tenor that sounded like it might break into a laugh.

“He’s dead.”

“That’s why you’re smiling? Because your brother’s dead?”

The threatened laugh hit the air with, “Yes! YES! He’s gone! Finally. He can’t brutalise my parents, he can’t force me to help him kidnap, and he can’t torture and abuse and kill. The sick fuck is dead!”

The laugh was bordering on hysterical and Liam thought the youth was about to pop.

“Here now, lad. Calm yourself.”

The young man turned to face him and shook his head. “But you can’t know the relief. You can’t. YOU CAN’T!”

Recognising the signs, Craig turned to the Guard. “Do you have a doctor here?”

“There’s a GP’s surgery two doors down.”

“Bring them, please.”

Eastwood shook his head hastily. “No. Please. I’ll be good.”

“It’s not about being good, Mister Eastwood. It’s about us not wanting you to do yourself harm.”

“I won’t. I won’t. I promise. It’s just… you can’t possibly understand. When you first got in touch, I couldn’t let myself hope. I thought sure Dermot would find out about us emailing. But now…”

Tears brightened his eyes. “We’re safe, everyone’s safe.”

Craig’s eyebrows rose. “Are you saying that your brother didn’t discover you’d contacted us?”

“No! God, no. I would have been dead.”

“But he was trying to kill you on the boat.”

“No, I mean I would have been dead that second. I’ve seen Dermot kill in a heartbeat when someone pisses him off. Pissed him off, I mean. He just cut their throats. One slice.”

A chill ran down Craig’s spine. None of their victims had been injured in that way.

Dermot Eastwood hadn’t practised his cutting technique on chickens. There were other dead bodies out there.

He made a note to inform the Commissioner, then focused back on those victims that they had found.

“If your brother didn’t discover that you’d betrayed him then why try to kill you at all? And your parents?”

The response was more sober than before.

“I don’t know how much you’ve worked out, but Dermot had been like this, that, for a long time. I can’t remember a time before he hit me and my parents. He tormented us, cut us, set fires, and killed every pet that I ever had. But the whole time he was clever. Boy, was he clever. He did well at school, and kept up a front that fooled the teachers and even the priest that he was a gift from God.”

“Which he wasn’t.”

Gerry Eastwood’s gaze dropped to his hands. “He was the exact opposite. But the whole village was impressed because he was big and handsome, and so smart that he could have gone to university. He was actually offered a place and for a while I thought we would be free of him, but he decided not to take it and joined my Da at sea instead. Then a year ago Da retired and Dermot took over the business and brought me on as crew.”

“Why didn’t you say no?”

The threatened tears began to stream down his cheeks.

“I’ve scars all over me from saying no through the years, and Dermot said he would kill my parents and local people we knew if I didn’t agree. I had no choice. But I tried to distract him from killing the best I could, and… I suppose I tried to make the best of it. I’d like to go to college someday and there was free time on the boat to read.”

Craig nodded. Things were as they’d thought.

“When exactly did he start killing?”

“Like this? Soon after my Da retired.”

“And in other ways?”

“Animals, all his life. People, late-teens I think, although he wouldn’t have told. The ones that I knew of were men, always men. Da would hire a new deckhand and he’d disappear suddenly. Dermot would tell Da that he’d changed his mind and joined another crew, when really, he’d cut their throat and thrown them overboard. I only found out because I saw him do it once. He was careful.”

“Your father never saw?”

“No! Da and Ma know nothing about the killing. Dermot said he’d kill me at sea if I told them, but I wouldn’t have anyway. They’re good kind people. Don’t tell them, please don’t tell them. It’ll send them to their graves.”

Craig wouldn’t make promises that could never hold.

“Tell me about this type of killing. The kind that started after your father retired.”

The younger man nodded and swallowed hard. “He’d choose victims, make me follow them until he was ready to grab them, and then…”

He stopped, shaking his head.

“What was your part in it?”

“To help with the taking and leaving, and I did the computer stuff.”

“You didn’t kill?”

Eastwood’s eyes saucered and he lurched forward, his voice loud with denial.

“NO! Never. No. I never laid a hand on those boys but to fetch and carry.”

They would soon find out.

“Nobody killed but Dermot. He said it was his right.”

“The spinal cords too?”

Eastwood looked like he was going to be sick and, “Yes” came in quiet voice.

“That was the worst thing of all.”

His face crumpled and the next words came in a wail.

“He made me watch. Now I see them every time I shut my eyes. Those poor lads.”

Seeing that if he forced the youth to relive everything, he risked losing him, Craig swiftly changed tack; straightening up in his chair and adopting a brighter tone, hoping that natural mimicry would make Eastwood to the same.

“Tell us about the computer side, Gerard.”

Straighten up slightly he might have done, but the question made Eastwood screw up his face in disgust.

“The Dark Web.” He shuddered. “That place is full of perverts. I never felt clean talking to them-”

Liam cut in to ask a question that surprised everyone in the room.

“Why did your brother only kill men? Was he homosexual?”

Gerry Eastwood’s dark eyes widened in surprise. “What?” He paused for a moment to consider then shook his head. “No. I mean… that never even occurred to me. But…no…no, I don’t think so. Now you mention it, Dermot never showed interest in anyone that way.”

Asexuality wasn’t uncommon in psychopaths. Their lust was reserved for killing. Only the sub-class of sexual psychopath consistently paired death with sex.

Liam spoke again. “So, he didn’t carry out the rapes?”

The younger man shuddered. “No way. That was a sick bastard from Manchester. He’d travel over every time Dermot had a new set of boys.”

Craig sighed despairingly, then expanded on his deputy’s point. “What about the opposite, Mister Eastwood? I mean, did your brother actively dislike men?”

“I…”

Eastwood frowned, considering the point, then he gave a puzzled shrug.

“…that might be nearer the truth, but I’m still not sure. I always thought he chose men for the challenge, the victory over them. Proving himself bigger and better by subduing them.” He nodded slowly then increasingly firmly. “Yes, yes, I’m sure that was it. Dermot was old-school macho and proud of it. He was into all that bodybuilding and right-wing warrior stuff. Very competitive. He bought hunting and gun magazines, things like that. And he enjoyed killing. I mean really enjoyed it.” He gave a small shudder. “He’d have killed anything for the thrill of the chase. Seals and dolphins too, if Da hadn’t been with us on the boat.”

There were plenty of both around Ireland’s coast.

Craig nodded. “He saw each abduction and kill as a test and his victims as just human prey. Asserting his supremacy. He was a dominant psychopath, full stop. That fits with the animal mutilation and fire-”

Liam gave a derisive snort. “I notice he didn’t tackle men his own size or age. Not that much of a warrior, was he?”

Gerry Eastwood nodded. “I asked him about that after the first abduction and got this for my answer.”

He lifted his T-shirt to reveal a thick, jagged scar that ran from the left-hand-side of his abdomen right round to his spine.

Even Liam was startled by the sight.

Craig nodded him to lower his shirt. “So, you’re saying that you couldn’t question Dermot’s manhood?”

“Well, you could. I did. But it was dicing with death.”

Curious though Craig was about how many more scars the boy bore, his deputy’s still shocked expression said that a brief diversion was in order.

“Let’s talk about money for a moment. When did your brother realise there was profit to be made from his urges?”

“He knew that all along. He started advertising with the first victims, and before he took any, he made me set up an online poll. To assess interest.”

“How lucrative was the venture?”

“Unbelievably. I was shocked by how much people were willing to pay.”

“And where’s that money now?”

“In a bank account set up in Dermot’s name. The details are on my laptop. I’ll help you access it. I think the money should go to the victims’ families but it probably won’t be up to me.”

“We’ll also need the names of everyone you communicated with online. Even if you only have screennames.”

Seeing that Liam was back in the land of the living, Craig returned to the gorier details of their case.

“Good. Now, continue telling us what happened over the past year, please.”

Eastwood gave a defeated sigh. “What more can I say? Dermot started his routine and it repeated.”

“You say Dermot always did the killing.”

“Always. And the spinal cuts.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment before adding, “He made me film everything.”

“We’ll need all that footage.”

Eastwood nodded quickly and his eagerness said the tapes would provide proof that he hadn’t killed. Gerry Eastwood had been behind the camera.

“Did the killing happen on The SallyAnn?”

The youth swallowed hard and squeezed out a response. “Sometimes. It depended on Dermot’s mood and how far we were sailing.”

“How was it possible to stream the killings at sea?”

The answer came in a sigh and his eyes brimmed again at the memory.

“On a calm sea it worked but, in a storm, not. If the weather was predicted to be bad Dermot would turn the computer off.”

If the questions had been answered as calmly as Craig had asked them, he would have been disgusted, but the way that Gerry Eastwood was fighting back tears made him relieved. Maybe he could find redemption after this.

“How long after the bodies were disposed of would your brother start again?”

“Not for three or four weeks usually, thank God. But this time…”

“Just days?”

“Yes. And there was something different about him lately, more desperate. Last time he took three victims instead of two, and he still wasn’t satisfied at the end.” He shuddered violently. “This time he wanted twins. For novelty, he said. Next time it might have been triplets or God knows what.”

“Would you say it was getting harder to satisfy his hunger?”

Gerry Eastwood nodded vehemently. “Yes! Yes, that’s it. Also, my reluctance to help was making him furious. I was desperate to break his cycle, so when that boy scratched me, I didn’t tell Dermot. I was praying that he’d caught some of my skin so someone would find DNA-”

Liam cut in. “You left the skin there deliberately?”

“Yes. If I’d told Dermot that he’d scratched me he would have made me scrub his nails raw, so I didn’t.”

Craig nodded to himself. They’d been right. Their killer would have been far too clever to leave such a clue. But his reluctant helper had seen it as his way out.

“Recently I’d started walking away from him when he talked about taking more boys. I knew I was pushing it, but I suppose I’d already…”

“Decided that it was better to die.”

Getting a nod in response, Craig said, “Say it for the tape, please,” ending the recording on the youth’s quiet, “Yes.”

“Right. We’ll need everything on paper, Mister Eastwood. Every detail that you can remember. When your brother’s behaviour started, about your life at home over the years, and even the smallest pieces of information about the recent abductions and deaths. Then I’ll need details of the earlier deaths where your brother cut men’s throats.”

Gerry Eastwood nodded in resignation. “Their parents deserve to know what happened to them.” His voice broke suddenly. “I should have had the courage to kill Dermot. I could have saved all of them that pain. I thought about doing it so often, but…”

To Craig’s surprise, the man at his side shook his head.

“Killing someone isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies, son. And killing a family member… well, I’m not sure I could do that.”

It was as close to sympathetic as Craig had seen his deputy be to a perp.

He decided that a dose of reality was in order.

“Cowardice isn’t a crime, Mister Eastwood, but being an accomplice is. You’ll do some prison time, but the more that you can help us and the victims’ families now, the more you’ll help yourself. Write it all down.”

The murder detectives said nothing more until they’d exited the station, but the moment Liam’s feet touched pavement, “How long do you think he’ll get?” hit the air.

Craig shook his head sadly.

“I don’t know, Liam, and I’m torn about it. He might get off with probation or he might do a few years. On one hand, I think he was a lifelong victim of that bastard and he’s already lived his punishment, but on the other, all it would have taken was some bravery to save all those young men.”

“And lose his own life and his folks’, boss? It’s easy for us to talk tough, but if it had been my family… well, I’m honestly not sure what I would have done. And he was a kid when his abuse started, boss. For God’s sake, he’s still a kid.”

Craig nodded. “You’re right, Liam. We’re trained to kill, when we must. No-one in that family was.”

Pushing away the memory of his most recent kill, he turned briskly towards the car. “Right, that’s enough navel gazing. Time to head home.”

Chapter Fifteen

The CCU. Around Two Weeks Later.

It was a sleepy Thursday afternoon and Craig had just finalised his report on the cove murders, ready to refer to it when called to testify in the Irish courts. Much of what they’d speculated about during their investigation had now become fact, even down to the haemochromatosis, a condition that Gerry Eastwood had been suffering from unknowingly but which had now been confirmed.

Several unlicensed guns had been found below deck on The SallyAnn and more in Dermot Eastwood’s room at Morning Cottage, along with the Nazi memorabilia that John had theorised about, a large bottle of rose oil, and the jewellery taken from each dead boy; secreted in a shoebox in his wardrobe and doubtless taken out at intervals to help him relive his kills.

They’d even found an explanation for their victims’ calloused feet; they’d been held in a large mesh cage inside the stables floored completely with rough shards of rock, and ringed outside by rows of broken glass to prevent escape.

Even at several weeks’ distance, the terrible events of the case bothered Craig. All that death and suffering, not least the suffering of the Eastwoods themselves.

The only bright notes were the recovery of Felix Sanders, who was back safe with his folks and starting therapy, and the fact that instead of the Eastwood family becoming pariahs in the village where their families had lived for generations, their neighbours had rallied around them; each with previously untold stories of Dermot’s malevolence which, had they revealed them in life, might have prevented so much pain.

Gerard Eastwood was on remand in Cork Prison, but the word was he might be released after trial, sentenced with time served. It seemed like the best outcome salvageable from the whole sorry mess, but would require diplomatic discussions with the bereaved families to make it work. The photographs that he’d seen of the Eastwood family’s scars, some decades old and many large, might go some way to convincing the bereaved that the young man’s tale of lifelong abuse was true.

But that was for the court case, and today, right now, Craig just felt… strange. As if something was missing.

He hadn’t heard from Julia since the case and that surprised him. OK, so he’d asked Aidan to inform her of the happenings in Cork, but he had still half-expected her to pick up the phone. Why hadn’t she?

He could call to ask her he supposed; he was so looking forward to his holiday with Katy that he now knew any attraction that he’d felt for the DCI had been fleeting and was confident that contact between them would no longer affect him. But Julia might misinterpret things and that would never do.

So, her lack of contact would have to remain a mystery. He didn’t like mysteries; they niggled him. But this was one that he would have to let rest.

And then there was Liam. He hadn’t called all day, and as his promotion board had ended two hours before he wasn’t sure what to think about that, and he couldn’t phone him to ask in case he’d failed the board and it caused offence. It was just a frustrating day all round.

Realising that ruminating was getting him nowhere, Craig went out to give his report to his PA. He was just setting it on her desk when she appeared from the kitchen.

“You’ve finished it, sir? Great. The Garda Commissioner was asking.”

“Copies of our lab reports still need to be attached, Nicky, but yes, my part’s complete.”

He scanned the office and found everyone but his deputy there and working away.

“Were you looking for Liam, sir? I haven’t heard from him.”

“I was, but I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. I was also wondering… have you heard from DCI Thomas, Nicky? We haven’t spoken since the Castlerock victims were found.”

The secretary felt her cheeks flame and ducked her head to hide them, but Davy had overheard the question and he decided to make her squirm.

Sauntering over to join them, the analyst said, “Yes, I thought that was strange too, chief. She seemed so keen to keep up with the case. Do you know why DCI Thomas hasn’t been in touch, Nicky?”

If looks could have killed, he would have dropped dead on the spot.

Craig noticed her glare and was about to explore the issue further when there was a thundering knock on the squad-room’s glass entrance doors, followed a second later by a loud rendition of, ‘Congratulations’, an old pop tune.

The fanfare was accompanied by a flurry of balloons and party streamers, with Liam following immediately behind carrying a ghetto blaster on his shoulder, and wearing sunglasses and a T-shirt that had ‘DCS CULLEN’ emblazoned across its front, and ‘WHO’S A CLEVER BOY THEN?’ on its back.

All thoughts of Julia and court reports evaporated instantly and the bottle of champagne that Craig had hidden for just such an occasion was produced and popped.

THE END

Core Characters in the Craig Crime Novels

Detective Chief Superintendent Marc (Marco) Craig: Craig is a sophisticated forty-eight-year-old of Northern Irish/Italian extraction. From a mixed religious background but agnostic.

An ex-grammar schoolboy and Queen’s University Law graduate, he went to London to join The Met (The Metropolitan Police) at twenty-two, rising in rank through its High Potential Development Training Scheme. He returned to Belfast in two-thousand and eight after fifteen years away.

He is a driven but compassionate workaholic, with an unfortunate temper that he has struggled with but learnt to control; a tendency to respond to situations with his fists almost resulted in him going to prison when in his teens.

He loves the sea, sails when he has the time and is generally sporty. He plays the piano and loves music, especially when it is by someone from Ireland or Italy.

His wife of three years Katy Stevens is a consultant physician at the local St Mary’s Healthcare Trust, and they’re living with their toddler son Luca in Katy’s old apartment on the River Lagan while their new home in the city’s Stranmillis area is being renovated.

Craig’s parents, his extrovert mother Mirella (from Rome - a retired concert pianist) and his quiet father Tom (from Belfast - a retired university lecturer in Physics) live in Holywood town, six miles outside Belfast. His once rebellious sister, Lucia, his junior by ten years, now works as the manager of a local charity and also lives in Belfast. She is engaged to Ken Smith, an ex-army officer who has since joined the police, and they are planning to marry in 2022.

Craig is now a Detective Chief Superintendent heading up Belfast’s Murder Squad and Police Intelligence Unit. The Murder Squad is based in the thirteen storey Co-ordinated Crime Unit (C.C.U.) in Pilot Street, in the Sailortown area of Belfast’s Docklands.

D.C.I. Liam Cullen: Craig’s deputy. Liam is a fifty-three-year-old former RUC officer from a farming family in Crossgar, Northern Ireland, who transferred into the PSNI from the RUC in two thousand and one following the Patton Reforms. He has lived and worked in Northern Ireland all his life and has spent over thirty years in the police force, including during The Troubles.

Liam is married to the forty-three-year-old, long-suffering Danielle (Danni), a part-time nursery nurse, and they have a ten-year-old daughter Erin and an eight-year-old son Rory.

Liam is unsophisticated, indiscreet, and hopelessly non-PC, but he’s a hard worker with a great knowledge of the streets and has a sense of humour that makes everyone, even the Chief Constable, laugh.

D.I. Annette Eakin: Annette is Craig’s newly promoted D.C.I. and has lived and worked in Northern Ireland all her life. She is a forty-eight-year-old ex-nurse who after her nursing degree practiced for thirteen years, then after a career break retrained and has now been in the police for even longer.

Annette divorced her husband Pete McElroy, a P.E teacher at a state secondary school, because of his infidelity and violence. He has since died, shot in self-defence by Annette. They had two children, a boy and a girl (Jordan and Amy), both now at university, and Annette also has a toddler daughter Carina with her new partner Mike Augustus, a pathologist who works with Doctor John Winter.

Annette is kind and conscientious with an especially good eye for detail. She also has very good people skills but can be a bit of a goody-two-shoes at times.

Nicky Morris: Nicky Morris is Craig’s forty-one-year-old personal assistant. She used to be PA to Detective Chief Superintendent (D.C.S.) Terry ‘Teflon’ Harrison.

Nicky is a glamorous east Belfast mum married to Gary who owns a small garage, and is the mother of a teenage son Johnny. She comes from a solidly working-class area, just ten minutes’ drive from the Murder Squad’s Docklands base.

She is bossy and street-wise and manages to organise a reluctantly-organised Craig very effectively. She has a very eclectic and unusual sense of style, and there is an ongoing innocent office flirtation between her and Liam Cullen.

Davy Walsh: The Murder Squad’s thirty-one-year-old senior computer analyst. A brilliant but shy EMO turned Hipster, Davy’s confidence has grown during his time on the team, making his lifelong stutter on ‘s’ and ‘w’ now almost unnoticeable unless he’s under stress.

His father is deceased and Davy lives at home in Belfast with his mother and grandmother. He has an older sister, Emmie, who studied English at university and now lives in England.

His girlfriend of eight years, Maggie Clarke, is a journalist and now News Editor at The Belfast Chronicle newspaper. They became engaged in 2015 and are planning a druidic wedding this year.

Doctor John Winter: John is the forty-eight-year-old Director of Pathology for Northern Ireland, one of the youngest ever when he was appointed. He is internationally respected in his field.

He’s brilliant, eccentric, gentlemanly and really likes the ladies, but he met his match in Natalie Ingrams, a surgeon at St Mary’s Healthcare Trust, and they have been married now for six years and have a toddler daughter called Kit. John and Natalie have just reunited after a period of separation because of discord in the marriage and disagreements over how to raise their child.

John was Craig’s best friend at school and university and remained in Northern Ireland to build his medical career when Craig left.

The pathologist persuaded Craig that the newly peaceful Northern Ireland was a good place to return to, and he assists Craig’s team with murder cases whenever he can. He is obsessed with crime in general and US police shows in particular and has a collector’s interest in ancient medical instruments.

D.C.I. Andrew (Andy) Angel: The team’s second D.C.I., Andy is a slight, forty-five-year-old, twice divorced, perpetually broke father of a thirteen-year-old son, Bowie, who lives with his mother.

A chocoholic with a tendency towards dreaming, he surprises the team at times with his abilities, particularly his visual skills, which include being a super-recogniser, a title given to a small number of individuals who possess exceptional visual recognition abilities. It is something that has proved useful in several investigations.

Andy’s spare time is spent sketching, painting and collecting original Irish art. He is also constantly on the search for a new relationship but without much success.

D.C.I. Aidan Hughes: The team’s third D.C.I. and originally seconded to the Murder Squad in twenty-sixteen from Vice, Hughes has now become a permanent addition to Craig’s team.

Mid-forties, tall, thin, and with a broad Belfast accent and a tendency to tan so much at his parents’ home in Spain that he resembles a stick of mahogany, he has known Craig and John Winter since university, where like Craig he studied law.

A newly reformed heavy smoker, exercise addict and joker, he is a popular if cynical member of the squad.

He is in the early stages of a relationship with a D.C.I. from Fraud and Robbery.

Doctor Desmond Marsham: Des is the Head of Forensic Science for Northern Ireland and works with John Winter at their laboratories in a science park off the Saintfield Road in Belfast. They often collaborate on Craig’s murder cases.

Instantly recognisable by his barely controlled beard, Des is married to the placid and hippyish Annie and they have two young sons, Martin and Rafferty.

The scientist is obsessed with Gaelic Football, both playing and watching it, and also spends several weekends each year metal-detecting with his university friends on Northern Ireland’s Atlantic coast.

D.C.S. Terry (Teflon) Harrison: Craig’s old boss. The sixty-two-year-old Detective Chief Superintendent was based at the Headquarters building in Limavady in the northwest Irish countryside but has now returned to the Docklands C.C.U. where he has an office on its thirteenth floor. He has a thirty-year-old daughter Sian, a marketing consultant, and was divorced by his wife because of a trail of mistresses, often younger than his daughter, so he now lives alone in an apartment in south Belfast.

Harrison is tolerable as long as everything’s going well, but he is acutely politically aware, a snob, and very quick to pass on the blame for any mistakes to his subordinates (hence the Teflon nickname).

He sees Craig as a rival and has tried to discredit him on many occasions. In particular, he resents Craig’s friendship with John Winter, whose opinions carry a great deal of weight in the justice system.

Key Background Locations

The majority of locations referenced in the book are real, with some exceptions.

Northern Ireland (real): Set in the north-east of the island of Ireland, Northern Ireland was created in nineteen-twenty-one by an act of British parliament. It forms part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and shares a border to the south and west with the Republic of Ireland. The Northern Ireland Assembly, based at the Stormont Estate, holds responsibility for a range of devolved policy matters. It was established by the Northern Ireland Act 1998 as part of the Good Friday Agreement.

Belfast (real): Belfast is the capital and largest city of Northern Ireland, set on the flood plain of the River Lagan. The seventeenth largest city in the United Kingdom and the second largest in Ireland, it is the seat of Northern Ireland’s devolved government, The Northern Ireland Assembly.

The Dockland’s Co-ordinated Crime Unit (The C.C.U. - fictional): The modern high-rise headquarters building is situated in Pilot Street in Sailortown, a section of Belfast between the M1 and M2 undergoing massive investment and re-development. The C.C.U. hosts all of the major detective squads in the state, amongst them murder, gang crimes, vice, trafficking and drugs.

Sailortown (real): An historic area of Belfast on the River Lagan that thrived between the sixteenth and twentieth centuries. Many large businesses were developed in the area, ships docked for loading and unloading, and their crews from far flung places such as China and Russia mixed with a local Belfast population of ship’s captains, chandlers, seamen and their families.

Sailortown was a lively area where churches and bars fought for the souls and attendance of the residents and where many languages were spoken each day. The basement of the Rotterdam Bar, at the bottom of Clarendon Dock, acted as the overnight lock-up to prisoners being deported to the Antipodes on boats the next morning, and the stocks which held the prisoners could still be seen until the nineteen-nineties.

During the years of World War Two the area was the most bombed area of the UK outside Central London, as the Germans tried to destroy Belfast’s ship building capacity. Sadly, the area fell into disrepair in the nineteen-seventies and eighties when the motorway extension led to compulsory purchases of many homes and businesses and decimated the Sailortown community. The rebuilding of the community has now begun, with new families moving into starter homes and professionals into expensive dockside flats.

The Pathology Labs (fictional): The labs, set on Belfast’s Saintfield Road as part of a large science park, are where Doctor John Winter, Northern Ireland’s Head of Pathology, and his co-worker, Doctor Des Marsham, Head of Forensic Science, carry out the post-mortem and forensic examinations that help Craig’s team solve their cases.

St Mary’s Healthcare Trust (fictional): St Mary’s is one of the largest hospital trusts in the UK. It is spread over several hospital sites across Belfast, including the main Royal St Mary’s Hospital site off the motorway and the Maternity, Paediatric and Endocrine (M.P.E.) unit, a stand-alone site on Belfast’s Lisburn Road, in the University Quarter of the city.

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