Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Read online

  ‘With the Murder Team, still, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, has he been there long?’

  ‘The only one longer than him is old Ben Slattery, but the less said about that chancer the better.’ Her father shook his head.

  ‘Slattery?’ Part of Iris wanted to ask him all about her new colleagues. But it wouldn’t take five seconds before Jack Locke would put two and two together and she had a feeling he wasn’t going to tell her anything she didn’t know. Ben Slattery was a walking cliché, a detective who had long since lost his moral compass – perhaps he’d seen too much. Iris had a feeling that even though he didn’t like her, she probably shouldn’t take it personally. He seemed like the type who didn’t like many people anyway. One thing she was sure of, wherever he went, trouble would never be very far behind. Grady was a different kettle of fish. He had a quality to him that she couldn’t quite place, but she had a feeling it fell somewhere between his broad shoulders as honour. It was, she thought now, a little sad that it marked him out among the many colleagues she’d worked with over the years.

  ‘Grady, though, he’s a good detective, so long as they don’t try to bury him in some admin job.’ Jack looked at her again, as if studying her for something she might say. ‘He’s a good bit older than you, probably well into his forties…’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I just ran into him, I’m not planning on eloping with him.’ Iris shook her head, she knew her father would love to see her settled down, married and producing an army of grandchildren for him.

  ‘Probably just as well, he’s hardly the settling down type,’ her father said, but he was watching her closely all the same, a whisper of some unsaid words passing between them.

  ‘Look at the time,’ she said to change the subject as much as anything else.

  ‘Well, is there anything else?’ He smiled at her now, perhaps hoping to hear that she had something to tell him that was a million miles away from the police and old memories.

  ‘Not a thing,’ she said, getting up and kissing his soft white hair. ‘But, I’m on early shift in a few hours, so…’ she left the hardly touched glass of brandy on the table before heading back to the city.

  Slattery always seemed to pull the short straw when it came to post mortems. He sighed, perhaps he’d been on too many cases? Kilgee would be swarming with every uniform Grady could lay his hands on today; for once, Slattery wished he could have been one of them. At least when he got back to the station, there’d be some bones to chew – the younger officers were all eager to impress, it seemed everyone wanted to be on the Murder Team.

  Sometimes, depending on the death, depending on the coroner, you could just attend the post mortem for the opening and closing. Not this time. Slattery and Iris arrived at the autopsy suite; both in their own way braced for what lay ahead. Slattery glanced at his well made-up colleague, with her soft wool coat and high-heeled boots. He was tempted to tell her it wasn’t fashion week she was attending. Well, perhaps that was a bit of an overstatement. After all, Slattery counted it as a personal triumph if he managed to find matching socks and both clean. All the same, Iris Locke was a bit too high and mighty for his liking. Then again, anyone who’d had their picture across the front pages of the papers was bound to get up his nose. Didn’t get her very far in the end though, did it? That thought warmed Slattery in some small way. He hated the idea that she had been foisted on them, probably just because she was Jack Locke’s daughter.

  Professor Rafiq Ahmed met them as they made their way through the cool corridors towards his office. It was hard to see where he’d put in an all-nighter. A three-car smash two days earlier meant he’d hardly left this place since. It meant the Crowe family had had to wait their turn. It was just as well murder victims never complain, Slattery thought. Ahmed looked as though he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood blockbuster – perfect hair, skin and teeth – and greeted them warmly. To be fair, there was worse out there than poor old Ahmed. Gay as a Christmas tea towel, of course, Slattery thought. Sometimes it seemed as if this country was running away from him with how PC everyone was meant to be. Still, he liked Ahmed. He was hardworking, good at his job and in Slattery’s opinion that said enough about him.

  All of the preliminary examinations had been done. Slattery wondered how they could get anything worthwhile from the charred remains he’d seen at the cottage in Kilgee.

  ‘So, d’ye find anything?’ Slattery shuffled into green scrubs that were never going to conceal his abundant girth.

  ‘Ah, Detective Slattery, this is science, not alchemy. We will see what comes back from the samples we have taken,’ Ahmed said, but his voice gave Slattery hope that maybe there was something small that might help.

  ‘What are we hoping for exactly?’ Iris asked from beneath a gown that was obviously built for a bigger physique.

  ‘Nothing in particular really and everything at the same time.’ Ahmed welcomed Iris as if she was booking into a hotel. Slattery could see she had warmed to him immediately. It didn’t surprise him, but it scratched away at that growing irritation she was bringing out in him. ‘We examine the skin, the hair, the outer orifices – like the ears and nose. It is interesting what the body picks up, more so if there was a struggle involved.’

  ‘But the fire, surely it means you don’t get so much?’

  ‘Maybe, but you’d be surprised at what survives. Now, we need to put on masks and caps.’

  The bodies didn’t look quite so badly burnt to Slattery as he had expected. Perhaps it was the bright light, or the fact that their hair and burnt clothes had been scraped back. Slattery developed a pale sweat on his forehead despite the low temperature of the operating room and cursed the heavy scrubs and bright lights overhead.

  Ahmed began the first incision, a long T wound that opened up Anna Crowe’s torso from neck to pubis. Slattery watched and listened while Ahmed went about his work, explaining for an unseen recorder his every action, his every finding. After a while Slattery began to zone out; they could be here for six hours, between the lot. The only way to survive it, Slattery had realised a long time ago, was to use the hours to go back over the case in his thoughts. It kept his mind off the drink, or other things that were likely to make him bad tempered. Outside, he imagined he could hear the rain falling down, sheets of it across the city. They’d had two unseasonable good weeks, but the forecasters had gloomily announced there’d be payback for the next two. At least it didn’t look like snow, just rain, rain and more rain. Slattery thought about Alan Gains, the Fairley baby and the thirty-odd years of history lived out in that cottage. Why would Anna Crowe want to go back there? Why would she bring her kids there? Surely, her life was not so unbearable that it drove her into the hands of a killer?

  Or maybe, just maybe, she thought she was moving away from one.

  Chapter Four

  Iris thought that Adrian Crowe had the kind of job a detective might have envied. It would appeal to anyone who’d emptied themselves out and learned the hard way that it all counted for so little in the end. By comparison, engineering was clean, well-paid and didn’t cause you any sleepless nights. It hardly mattered if you gave a damn or not, so long as you did what you were paid to do, you left the place at finishing time with a clear conscience. ABA Technics was based at Shannon Airport, a fifteen-mile drive from the Crowe family home, just twelve miles from Kilgee. Not that Iris was counting exactly. Crowe had his own office and worked mostly from there, a cubbyhole at the far end of a draughty hanger. Normally, he was on stand-by, called only if there was a problem the regular mechanics couldn’t figure. He worked mainly on CAD, drawing up and designing small technical replacement parts, commissioned by various airlines around the world. Truth was, though, once he’d clocked in, he could legitimately be anywhere in the hangar – or ten miles away, the only way of contacting him was by mobile phone. His alibi, whatever his colleagues might say, wasn’t worth a fig to them.

  ‘She was a lovely girl, the lads here are shocked.’ Bill
McFadden offered to show them around. ‘He never mentioned a thing about moving out into the sticks, though; quiet fella.’ McFadden was pensive. He was a big man – a man who’d eaten too many steaks, drunk too many brandies. ‘He’s been here… must be ten years now, and I’d say I know as much about him now as I did on that first day.’

  ‘Did he pal around with any of the mechanics?’ Iris had her notebook at the ready.

  ‘No, he really did keep himself to himself. I knew she was an artist, they’d a couple of kids, but that was it – he just comes in, does his work and goes out the door again.’ He leaned in closer to Slattery, lowered his voice. ‘Between ourselves, he’s a bit odd. There was no reason to work nights, but he said he’d rather have the peace and quiet.’ He shook his head then, as if he was still trying to figure it out. ‘Still, a lot to be said for it, I can tell you, I’m not even sure that he’s in the union.’

  ‘Mind if we hold onto this for a day or two?’ Iris held up the work mobile Crowe had given them earlier in the day.

  ‘Not at all, keep it as long as ye want, I don’t suppose Adrian will be back for a while yet?’

  ‘No,’ Iris looked up at McFadden, ‘he’s in a bad way, as you’d expect.’

  ‘Oh aye, as you’d expect, can’t imagine what it must be like, the wife and the kids, bad enough one… but… doesn’t bear thinking about.’ McFadden shook his head.

  ‘Can we take a quick look at his office, while we’re here?’ Iris asked.

  ‘Sure, but you won’t find anything there, bar drawings and log books.’ McFadden got up from his desk, sighing as he did so. ‘Terrible do.’ They walked slowly across the huge hangar. A wolf whistle sounded from somewhere out of sight. Iris stopped herself from throwing a dirty eye in the direction of the mechanics at work beneath them. She could feel Slattery watching her and so she tightened her expression into an unreadable neutral. She suspected he would enjoy her unease and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of that. On the floor there were two small carrier planes. Iris figured that space wise, the place could take something far bigger.

  ‘How many have you working here?’ Slattery called out to McFadden above the sound of wind and machinery.

  ‘Forty. We had more, but the way things are now… well, you can’t afford not to run a tight ship.’

  Adrian Crowe’s office was as bare and empty as his home. There were no photographs, no kids’ drawings, nothing personal. It was as if he just spirited himself in and out of the place each day. Even now, Iris would have assumed the man had tidied up forensically, if he’d ever been here to start with. There wasn’t so much as a coffee cup or an open folder left on his desk. Everything put away neatly – even his pencils sat in a company mug, heads down, eight General’s Kimberly drawing pencils, perfectly sharpened, left ready for use.

  ‘Is he an army man?’ Slattery replaced a pencil he’d picked up to inspect.

  ‘Yes, actually, he came to us straight from the air corps. Did his apprenticeship with them and then the few years he had to. Sure, there’s no money in it. He was glad to get in here, I’d say, and he’s done well for himself. He’s good at his job. I’d be hard pressed to find anyone as good – shown him too, with regular bonuses.’

  Iris nodded; it explained something, although she was not sure quite what. Certainly, it accounted for the neatness, maybe for the remoteness too. But there was something else about Adrian Crowe that didn’t quite fit. Something niggled Iris and she knew that she’d have to get a better handle on the man before she could figure out quite what that was. Iris had spent sufficient time in undercover to know that her gut instinct wouldn’t let her down. She had been a detective long enough to know that if you sit back and wait, people generally show themselves for what they are sooner, rather than later.

  Slattery scanned quickly through the drawers, but there was nothing there. McFadden shook hands with them as they were leaving; telling them to be sure and let him know if there was anything else they needed help with. Slattery said they’d be sending two detectives out to talk to the mechanics and the rest of the staff. By the time this was over, McFadden would be well sick of the sight of them.

  Slattery looked disdainfully down at his mug of tea. It was almost five o’clock, time for something stronger, but it would have to wait. For now, he sprawled on the flimsy office chair that had been his for too many years to count. Grady wanted a report on the day’s investigation and that meant another hour here listening to teachers’ pets doing their best to make something of the nothing they’d managed to collect after a full day on house to house.

  ‘She was a schoolteacher, lives now just in the centre of the village…’ one of the floaters was saying.

  ‘She sounds like a proper old news bag to me,’ Slattery couldn’t help himself, ‘on neighbourhood watch is she?’ He knew the type: old dears, living out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the television for company all day long. As soon as a policeman knocked on the door they were so helpful they could hold him up for hours imparting tea, biscuits and every bit of tittle tattle they’d ever heard or made up.

  Grady shot him a look, which went some way towards quietening him, and so he angled his gaze through grimy windows towards the streets below. The reports droned on and Slattery could almost feel the life being sucked out of him, this was a waste of time. They had nothing. Maybe, he felt, they didn’t know how to ask the right questions, but the fact was that even if they did, they probably wouldn’t know what a lead was if it smacked them in the face. They were too young, too enthusiastic, too hungry.

  He felt his gaze slide towards Locke, they’d have to wait and see if she had the makings of a half decent detective or if she was only fit for grunt work. No matter what they thought, Slattery knew, you can’t make a good detective and there were plenty of second and third generation guards around that should have considered their career choices more carefully. Then, suddenly a name invaded his thoughts and it perked him up with curious keenness. Veronique Majewski.

  That name was enough to make him gulp back the last of his cold tea, grab his jacket and head for the door. He hated writing reports anyway.

  Slattery had left Iris back at the station typing up their day’s work; figured she was as relieved to see the back of him as he was of her. He’d told her he had to visit the dentist. It was years since Slattery had been to a dentist; never ceased to amaze him what a youngster would swallow. Instead he’d made his way out to Kilgee.

  Veronique Majewski and he had crossed paths a couple of years earlier. Veronique didn’t care much for guards, didn’t much care for anyone unless she could see a direct way of benefiting from them. They had history, she and Slattery. He had saved her life, so now she would have to put up with him, only because they both knew she owed him.

  ‘You want coffee?’ she asked when she opened the door, her Polish accent thick and heavy. If anyone recognised the sound of a hangover, it was Slattery. He nodded at her.

  ‘Black and strong.’ She handed him steaming coffee and Slattery figured by the aroma that it was as cheap as you could get. She sat in a chair opposite him, fixing her peroxide hair with a shaking hand. Slattery would have been hard pushed to put an age on Veronique, but he’d guess not yet thirty, although the dark circles that slumped beneath her eyes gave her an added decade. Her shape was good and she held herself like a young woman in her prime. Slattery figured that if she dumped the skimpy clothes and high boots, she could look quite classy – or classy to his mind, at least. But he knew that there would be no change for Veronique, no change at all.

  ‘So, what is it that you want, Sergeant Slattery?’ She eyed him as if he was a predator.

  Slattery put his cup back down on the table; a sip was enough, any more would just be out of habit or by accident. ‘Routine enquiries, Veronique.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘The fire across the way; we’re doing a house to house, see if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary this last while.’

  �
�One of your guards was here already, asking me this.’ She raised her hand theatrically in the air, as if all of this nasty business had managed to seep into the very fibre of her home. ‘I told him everything I could think of then.’ Veronique’s English was improved since last time Slattery had met her, but she was still faltering, still grappling between her native and adopted languages.

  Slattery looked around him. The kitchen was small and cramped with far too many empty vodka bottles piled up in a dark corner that had once been home to the dog’s bed. It now lay swamped beneath them – pity the dog that had to sleep there at night. The whole room was cluttered with timeworn, cheap furniture and a wall of unsightly wooden kitchen units that had seen better days. A selection of game – owls, a fox and something that was either a weasel or a stoat recently trapped and stuffed – sat watching with lifeless eyes from a cut-rate reproduction sideboard. The only pictures on the walls had been placed there by a generation long gone.

  ‘Did you know Anna Crowe?’

  ‘No.’ Veronique looked into her cup. ‘They’d only just arrived. I saw her in the village a couple of times.’

  ‘And your partner?’

  ‘What about Ollie?’

  ‘Did he know her? They both grew up here, didn’t they?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just trying to get a better picture of her, you know. We want to talk to anyone who knew her, even vaguely…’ Slattery took another sip of the coffee out of habit, he regretted it immediately. It was cooling now and its bitter taste had taken on a tarry flavour. He grimaced as it hit the back of his throat.

  ‘Not up to your fine standards.’ Veronique nodded at the cup. They both knew he’d rather be drinking something a lot stronger.

  ‘No it’s fine.’ He said the words automatically, avoiding her eyes. He needn’t have bothered; she had no intention of doing anything to improve its taste.