A Limited Justice (#1 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) by Catriona King

peace.
    While she was out of touch and out of reach, he could pretend that she was just a memory. Someone he’d known when he’d lived some other life. It was only when her card arrived with its fatal constancy that he was reminded of the life he’d once led with her. One where he’d allowed himself to love. Not the safe love of family or friends, always returned and never costing, but the fierce, dangerous love where someone bought your heart with promises. Promises that she’d broken long ago.
    And now, choice again. Not even the certain choice of her love, only the choice of whether to see her. See her, and let her face and voice and touch rip through the wall that he’d built between himself and the world. He hated her for coming and he hated John for telling him, and he hated himself more than either of them, for being such a bloody coward.
    The water still stretched ahead of him, grey and frothing white, unfeeling and careless. He envied it for that. But thirty minutes of staring hadn’t answered his questions, and thirty more minutes shivering wouldn’t answer them either. So he pulled up his collar and pressed his phone on, reconnecting with the world. The instant beeping reminded him that life went on without him and he still had ‘the job’, something that he could always control.
    Somewhere else, Camille was getting ready to do something to someone, with whatever awareness of the turmoil she created, her selfish heart would allow.
    He hit the symbol and picked up his messages. Three: John sounding anxious, Liam sounding cocky and John again with just one word. ‘Sorry’. He had nothing to be sorry about.
    It was his mess and his life and his fault. Craig dialled John’s number and it cut immediately to answerphone. He was grateful for that, not leaving a message, the call itself indication of the apology that meant they could pretend it had never happened. He’d make unspoken amends over beer and football another day.
    Then he dialled Liam.
    “Well, what were you sounding so happy about?” Aware that he sounded like a grumpy shit, but still acting like one.
    “Two things. One, McCandless was in the local chippy about one o’clock.” Craig nodded to himself, it fitted John’s findings.
    “And two, we might have a witness. An old lady across the road, Ida Foster. She’s away until tonight so I’ll nip down there later. Apparently, she’s the local Poirot, so well worth a chat. One neighbour said she thought she saw a young man going into the garage about two-ish but couldn’t be sure, but she says Mrs Foster’s our woman for the details.”
    Craig knew he wanted a ‘well done’ so he grunted. “Very good.”
    “OK, it’s seven now, I’ll see you in the morning. Annette has some leads she’s chasing and we’ll follow up on Mrs Foster’s info when you get it. And let’s see if we can make an arrest before the press realise that a 200 pound man was probably killed by someone half his size. Or half the wives in Northern Ireland will be following suit.”
    Then he cut the call quickly, realising that it was too abrupt, and feeling bad about his people skills. Must try harder tomorrow.
    The light on his phone suddenly flashed with a text – John. ‘Beer in town. 8?’
    Forgiven already, brilliant. Apology-free friendship, available only with a man.
    ***
    The team of C.S.I.s stood respectfully quiet beside the Bann River, as Detective Inspector Julia McNulty knelt by the bloated, still body, oblivious to the sharp stones cutting her knees.
    The girl wasn’t much more than a teenager, her thin wrist and fine chain bracelet echoing her youthful fragility. Her soft, long hair was spread across a swollen face that told of her time in the water. The brown strands were smeared bloodily, as if their ends had been dipped in dark red paint and then stroked deliberately across her pale, freckled cheeks.
    Her arctic white t-shirt with its logo of Kasabian was caked with mud from the river, and