hopes; Bob Hope and no hope. No newspaper’s going to let us tap their lines; their sources would dry up.”
“Then we’ll have to persuade the editor or a judge to say yes.” Craig turned to Davy. “Who’s the news editor at The Chronicle these days?”
Davy’s girlfriend Maggie Clarke was a reporter at the paper. The analyst’s slim face fell. “You’re not going to like it.”
Craig knew the answer immediately. “Ray Mercer.”
Ray Mercer was the worst gutter journalist that any of them had ever met and some idiot had made him news editor.
Liam gawped at him. “Mercer? Editor! Holy God.”
Craig’s tone was caustic. “I think God was on holiday that week. Mercer will never give us access to his line voluntarily; we might catch him out on his dirty tricks. OK, we’ll have to get a warrant. Andy, you and Julia get onto that. Get legal to make the request watertight and then go to Judge Standish, he’s a good man. If anyone will give us a warrant he will.”
Craig waved Liam on to demonstrate the back door trick while he thought, running through a checklist in his head. Perimeter search ongoing. C.S.I.s almost finished at the house and re-interviewing potential witnesses, yes. Lining up traces for possible ransom calls, and Davy doing deep background on the Bwyes, check.
He interrupted just as Liam got to his ‘voila’ moment with the key, much to his chagrin.
“Davy, add Bernadette Ross and the other estate staff to the deep background checks, please. And don’t forget to check out Oliver Bwye’s rifle and shooting experience. Also, I want you to have a first go at forming a suspect list from people that The Chronicle hacked off.”
Everyone started laughing and Craig was momentarily puzzled, until he noticed Liam’s face. It was a picture of huffy annoyance.
“Could you not have waited? I’d just got to the good bit!”
Craig shrugged. “Sorry. OK, if you’ve finished then let’s all get on with it. Davy, you can have this room as your base. Annette, you and I have to be at Derry station by eleven to see Ms Ross. Liam, sort out the other re-interviews and Gerry, stay here and supervise the searches please. You all know what you’re doing.”
As he went to leave the study by the back door, he turned back to where Davy was arranging his desk and dropped his voice. “I haven’t forgotten what we discussed yesterday. I’ve an appointment to see the C.C. at two o’clock and it’s top of my list.”
He was out of the door before Davy had time to smile.
****
11 a.m.
Davy scanned the large study for a moment, peering into its corners and opening the drawers of the antique desk where he’d set up shop. They were all empty, victims of the savage swoop Craig had ordered that had stripped the room to its bare bones in the search for clues. Whether the search had yielded anything was yet to be determined but at least they’d put the furniture back in place.
The analyst ran his finger along a shelf of hard-backed books, selecting one; ‘Moby Dick’, a classic. He slipped it back and took another, then another, until finally he’d checked the titles of every book on the shelf; they were identical! Oliver Bwye had ten copies of ‘Moby Dick’, but why? He scrutinised the line then he played a hunch and lifted them again, one by one. He was right, one of the books felt heavier. He flipped open the cover in excitement, only to be disappointed by its normality. There was the title page and contents and then Melville’s famous opening line. ‘Call me Ishmael…’
So why did the book feel heavier than the rest? Davy flicked through the pages until, a third of the way through, the words ceased and a steel plate took their place. He recognised what it was immediately, a pressure lock; all he needed was the right amount of weight and it would spring open. Thirty seconds of experimenting brought success and the plate sprang back to reveal what he’d guessed it would, a half
“Then we’ll have to persuade the editor or a judge to say yes.” Craig turned to Davy. “Who’s the news editor at The Chronicle these days?”
Davy’s girlfriend Maggie Clarke was a reporter at the paper. The analyst’s slim face fell. “You’re not going to like it.”
Craig knew the answer immediately. “Ray Mercer.”
Ray Mercer was the worst gutter journalist that any of them had ever met and some idiot had made him news editor.
Liam gawped at him. “Mercer? Editor! Holy God.”
Craig’s tone was caustic. “I think God was on holiday that week. Mercer will never give us access to his line voluntarily; we might catch him out on his dirty tricks. OK, we’ll have to get a warrant. Andy, you and Julia get onto that. Get legal to make the request watertight and then go to Judge Standish, he’s a good man. If anyone will give us a warrant he will.”
Craig waved Liam on to demonstrate the back door trick while he thought, running through a checklist in his head. Perimeter search ongoing. C.S.I.s almost finished at the house and re-interviewing potential witnesses, yes. Lining up traces for possible ransom calls, and Davy doing deep background on the Bwyes, check.
He interrupted just as Liam got to his ‘voila’ moment with the key, much to his chagrin.
“Davy, add Bernadette Ross and the other estate staff to the deep background checks, please. And don’t forget to check out Oliver Bwye’s rifle and shooting experience. Also, I want you to have a first go at forming a suspect list from people that The Chronicle hacked off.”
Everyone started laughing and Craig was momentarily puzzled, until he noticed Liam’s face. It was a picture of huffy annoyance.
“Could you not have waited? I’d just got to the good bit!”
Craig shrugged. “Sorry. OK, if you’ve finished then let’s all get on with it. Davy, you can have this room as your base. Annette, you and I have to be at Derry station by eleven to see Ms Ross. Liam, sort out the other re-interviews and Gerry, stay here and supervise the searches please. You all know what you’re doing.”
As he went to leave the study by the back door, he turned back to where Davy was arranging his desk and dropped his voice. “I haven’t forgotten what we discussed yesterday. I’ve an appointment to see the C.C. at two o’clock and it’s top of my list.”
He was out of the door before Davy had time to smile.
****
11 a.m.
Davy scanned the large study for a moment, peering into its corners and opening the drawers of the antique desk where he’d set up shop. They were all empty, victims of the savage swoop Craig had ordered that had stripped the room to its bare bones in the search for clues. Whether the search had yielded anything was yet to be determined but at least they’d put the furniture back in place.
The analyst ran his finger along a shelf of hard-backed books, selecting one; ‘Moby Dick’, a classic. He slipped it back and took another, then another, until finally he’d checked the titles of every book on the shelf; they were identical! Oliver Bwye had ten copies of ‘Moby Dick’, but why? He scrutinised the line then he played a hunch and lifted them again, one by one. He was right, one of the books felt heavier. He flipped open the cover in excitement, only to be disappointed by its normality. There was the title page and contents and then Melville’s famous opening line. ‘Call me Ishmael…’
So why did the book feel heavier than the rest? Davy flicked through the pages until, a third of the way through, the words ceased and a steel plate took their place. He recognised what it was immediately, a pressure lock; all he needed was the right amount of weight and it would spring open. Thirty seconds of experimenting brought success and the plate sprang back to reveal what he’d guessed it would, a half
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