The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 14

  Liam grinned, joining in the joke, then he withdrew his school notebook, flicked to a page near the back and handed it to the cleric. Aloysius squinted at the paper for a moment then gave up and pulled a pair of glasses from his robe, shooting Liam a glance that dared him to make a quip. After a few seconds scrutinising the page he stared at Liam, confused.

  “What’s this?”

  “I was hoping that you could tell me.”

  Aloysius tutted. “I don’t mean what language is it; surely even you recognise Latin when you see it. I meant what’s it about?”

  Liam frowned, tossing up whether to confide in the Brother or not. He decided on yes. If you couldn’t trust the clergy with a secret then there was no hope left for the world.

  “If I tell you, you mustn’t tell anyone. It’s part of an ongoing case.”

  His warning tone made the teacher smile; Liam had a long way to go to achieve the fear of God voice that he’d used on him in class.

  “I promise.”

  Liam nodded and folded his hands on his paunch, readying to tell the sorry tale. Five minutes and three corpses later Aloysius McGovern shook his head.

  “It’s a shocking world we live in, but thank goodness for the police. If you didn’t hold the line it would be even worse.” He thought for a moment. “So you’re saying that this was carved…”

  “Not carved, tattooed.”

  “Tattooed then. That’s interesting in itself; tattooing takes time and artistry. That tells you something about your killer.”

  Liam looked blank.

  “Well, for instance, that he’s not young. A boy would have panicked and grabbed the nearest Stanley knife; they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of buying a tattoo kit. Then there’s the language itself; it’s complex. That means they’re educated…”

  He broke off abruptly and Liam saw a look of realisation cross his face. He leaned forward eagerly.

  “What? You’ve just thought of something; what is it?”

  Aloysius wasn’t ready to commit himself so he threw in a deflection instead, nodding at the small notebook now lying beside their cups.

  “Go on then, you tell me what the sentence means. Prove that I wasn’t talking to myself in class all those years ago.”

  Liam hesitated. He’d been steeped in Latin since birth. It had been part of the soundtrack of his childhood, like the rumble of tractor wheels and the cattle’s moos. Its cadences had risen and fallen depending on the time of year. Sometimes quiet and gentle, burbling along in the background like the small stream on their farm, like when his mother practiced her Ave Maria for the Christmas recital at the church, with dominus and benedicta words he recognised like modern kids knew the lyrics of a Pharrell song. At other times the stream had burst its banks; when the priest’s voice had soared in a Latin mass or the whole school had recited a passage at assembly on a Holy Day. He’d thought of Latin as one of his best subjects but the phrase in front of them had him confused, so he shook his head and answered his old teacher in the only way that he could.

  “I used to be good at Latin, you know that. But this isn’t any Latin I recognise and our analyst can’t find anyone to translate.” He narrowed his eyes at the Brother, half suspicious, half amused. “I bet you could.”

  Aloysius guffawed and punched his arm in camaraderie. “Well done, boy. I wondered if you’d remember. Yes, you were good at Latin, Classical Latin that is.” He waved his hand at the notebook. “But what you’ve got here is as Vulgar as it comes. Its use started when Augustus became Rome’s first emperor, in 27BC.” Just as Davy had said.

  Something occurred to Liam. “Here, when did your man Augustus quit?”

  “He didn’t. He died in 14 AD.”

  “So Christ was born during his reign?”

  “Well spotted. Is it relevant to your case?”

  He made a face that said he wasn’t sure and waved the cleric on.

  “Right. A modern comparator to Vulgar Latin would be the banter people used every day on the streets, rather than the formal language in which Ovid and Virgil chose to write their works.” Aloysius warmed to his topic. “Depending upon the city and occupation of the speaker, it could be harder to understand than text speak or rap are now to the uninitiated.” He smiled at Liam. “But you knew that I’d know this. It’s the reason that you’re here.”

  Liam nodded. When Aloysius had paced round the classroom telling tales of daring do he’d almost always used Vulgar Latin to tell them in and he’d kept a note of some phrases in his school notebook.

  The Brother shook his head, remembering. “I’m not as fluent as I was when I taught you. The headmaster caught me telling a story in it one day in the nineties and warned me off.” He drew himself up in his chair and adopted a solemn tone. “Only Classical Latin will be taught in this school, Brother Aloysius, and if you cannot adhere to that you should consider your future here. The humourless old…”

  Liam cut in quickly, before Aloysius’ next word shattered childhood memories of him as a man apart.

  “Does that mean that you can’t translate it?”

  He lifted his notebook only to have it wrenched from his hand. Aloysius shot him a reproving look.

  “Did I say that? I can translate it all right, but you’ll have to work out its relevance to your case yourself.” He opened the book and read aloud. “‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ translated into Classical Latin would be ‘a persona est confessio veri.’” He turned back to Liam with a pleased smile. “Very few people even recognise Vulgar Latin, you know, so I’m not surprised your analyst is having trouble getting it translated. It would take an academic versed in ancient languages, and even then they mightn’t understand the slang.”

  Liam glanced at the clock. It was after ten and with the roadworks he’d have an hour’s drive home. Danni’s roast dinner was a lost hope. He urged the teacher on.

  “So? It means…”

  “Roughly it means ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true’. And I know exactly where it originates from.”

  As Liam scribbled down the words Aloysius rushed over to a bookcase, rummaging through its contents and returning with a red-backed tome. He stood over Liam, urging him on.

  “Read me that translation again.”

  His excitement was infectious and Liam found himself sitting on the edge of his chair. It felt like they were on a treasure hunt. “A person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true. What does it mean? That people always tell the truth?”

  The pastor didn’t answer. He was too busy flicking through the book, first to the back page references and then forward to the index, running a finger down it till he’d found the page that he was searching for. He scanned the page quickly and then stabbed it triumphantly with a finger.

  “There it is! I knew that I’d heard it before.” He retook his seat, continuing eagerly. “‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’. It’s Classical Latin and it means, literally – a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, exactly the same as your Vulgar Latin tattoo, but it’s the next bit that’s important ... not made by way of torture. The whole sentence reads ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture.’”

  He paused for so long that Liam knew something important was coming. Aloysius didn’t disappoint. When he restarted his voice held disbelief.

  “But this can’t possibly be right, Liam. This phrase is centuries old. What is it doing tattooed on three dead youngsters in twenty-fifteen?”

  Liam wanted to shout “I don’t know, so hurry up and tell me” But instead he bit his tongue and asked, “Where is it from?” with as much patience as he could muster. His restraint paid off.

  “It’s a phrase linked to the Spanish Inquisition. You know who they were of course; a tribunal set up by Aragon and Castile in the late fifteenth century, to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in their kingdoms. The words usually followed a description of how, onc
e torture had ended, the torture victim freely confessed to their offenses. Thus confessions following torture were always deemed to be made of the confessor's free will, and hence valid. The Romans believed the same. In fact they believed that without torture no confession would possibly be true. Or legal.”

  Aloysius sat back, gazing into space with an expression akin to ecstasy. Liam was still catching up.

  “OK, so the tattoo’s the Vulgar Latin version of a Classical Latin phrase from the middle ages, that means even if it was tortured out of someone their confession was definitely true?” He slumped in his chair. “How the heck does it link to three modern murders?”

  Aloysius frowned, thinking. “I think…either they believed that no-one would be able to translate the tattoo and it would stay their secret, or they were deliberately setting you a puzzle to solve. They’re taunting you, but why is anyone’s guess. Although I have a nasty feeling that your case somehow hinges on religion.”

  Liam groaned, picturing trying to convince the rest of the team of the words’ relevance, especially the ones who thought Latin was an ancient myth. But they couldn’t dismiss what Aloysius had said; torture fitted with the choke pear they’d found with their second victim.

  He turned his attention back to the here and now, smiling at his old teacher admiringly.

  “How could you possibly have remembered that? There must be millions of Latin expressions used in religion.”

  Aloysius beamed. “Ah but, remember that I taught history as well. The Spanish Inquisition always caught my imagination. They were pretty vicious, but then so was everyone in those days.”

  Liam guffawed. “Their image wasn’t helped by Monty Python.”

  “No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

  They laughed at the catchphrase from their youth and the discussion shifted to comedy, prompting the teacher to bring out a bottle of whisky and his old pupil to call home and explain that he’d be staying with his sister overnight. The Spanish Inquisition could wait until tomorrow and Liam already knew a woman who could help him there.

  ****

  London.

  Annette signed the hotel register then she and Nicky took the lift to the seventh floor, to gaze out of her window across London like two teenagers on a gap year. Tomorrow they would meet Yemi and his superintendent but tonight there were more important matters requiring attention; like dressing up in outfits they would never wear in Belfast and dancing the night away.

  Annette felt a moment’s guilt about leaving the others to work the case and then Nicky held aloft the Greer folder and it evaporated. They locked it with their laptops in the hotel safe then removed a bottle of duty free Champagne from Annette’s suitcase and started the weekend as they intended to go on.

  ****

  The Craig’s house. Holywood.

  Dinner had been a quiet affair, well, as quiet as Mirella’s banging down of cutlery and repeated tutting and sniffing had allowed. When she hadn’t been doing that she’d alternated between gazing pathetically at Lucia and glaring daggers at Craig, as if his sister’s impending trip to the Middle East was somehow his fault. As she rose to get the dessert from the fridge Tom Craig beckoned his son into the hall, leaving a diplomatic Katy to engage the others in a discussion about Italy.

  Craig senior edged them as far from the kitchen as he could without setting off Mirella’s abandonment alarm and turned to his only son, shaking his head.

  “Don’t take it personally, son. Your mother’s just worried sick.” He glanced back towards the kitchen. “To be honest so am I. Your sister’s not as worldly wise as she’d like everyone to believe and Syria’s dangerous for anyone, never mind for an outspoken woman like her.” A note of anxiety entered his voice. “They’ve killed charity workers there.”

  Craig looked at the man they’d almost lost two years earlier and saw the toll Lucia’s decision was taking on him. He looked paler than he had in a long time and Craig wondered how often his angina spray was being used. He was suddenly furious with his sister for putting their parents under this strain; he wanted to lock her in a cell until she saw some sense but instead he placed a hand on his father’s arm.

  “I can’t tell you that it’s not dangerous, Dad. You’re right, they have killed aid workers, but Lucia’s so pig headed that if we try to tell her not to go she’ll get even more determined.” He glanced towards the kitchen and dropped his voice. “Katy has a theory that it’s partly because she’s lonely.”

  To his surprise his father nodded. “I agree. She’s been unhappy since she and Richard called it a day. But what can we do about it?”

  Craig dropped his voice even further. “If you can stop Mum from blowing a gasket, leave the rest to us. Luce hasn’t resigned yet and her job needs a month’s notice, so that gives us a little time.” He put an arm around the man who’d raised him, momentarily shocked by how thin he felt beneath his clothes. “Trust Katy, if anyone can stop Lucia going she will. Now we’d better go back before Mum sends out the troops.”

  As they walked down the hall they could hear that the chat had shifted to the coming Westminster elections. Any topic was fine, just as long as it didn’t touch on faraway countries full of heavily armed men. As Craig retook his seat Katy gave him a smile that said the party plans were well under way.

  Chapter Nine

  Queen’s University Belfast. Saturday, 11 a.m.

  Liam had phoned to say he had info that warranted moving the briefing to one o’clock, and when he’d disentangled himself from his nieces and nephews after a broken night’s sleep and persuaded his sister that he didn’t need a packed lunch he’d finally managed to leave Crossgar. Now he was draining his third coffee and wincing at his hangover; he and Aloysius had hammered a whole bottle of whisky the night before; he hadn’t reckoned with the Brother having a hollow leg.

  He smiled weakly across the desk at Theodora Rustin, flattered that she’d agreed to see him on a Saturday. He was pretty sure that she fancied him and had had her hair freshly styled because she did.

  Rustin broke the silence. “Did you manage to get it translated?”

  He withdrew his notebook with a flourish that said he had.

  She sat forward eagerly, gracing him with an admiring smile. “May I ask who translated it? It wasn’t a language that I recognised.”

  “It’s Vulgar Latin. Basically the street slang that was spoken in ancient Rome.”

  Her eyes widened in a way most women reserved for the first day of the sales.

  “Vulgar Latin! You found someone who understands it?”

  Liam preened himself; her admiration was doing wonders for his hangover. “Speaks it too. A Brother who taught at my old school. He used to tell us stories in it, off the book so to speak. He hasn’t taught in a while but he remembered enough.”

  Her eyes widened further. “Can you give me his name? It’s just that a friend in the classics department at Oxford has had problems with translations and they might be able to use his skills.”

  Liam shrugged; it hadn’t occurred to him that Aloysius might get a job out of helping him but it was worth a shot.

  “I’ll check with him and if it’s OK I’ll put you in touch.” He gestured at the text then spoke in the masterful tone that he was sure women liked. “Now, if it’s all right I’d like to focus on what I found out.”

  She sat back, composing herself. “Of course. It’s just so exciting.”

  He couldn’t help thinking that she was easily pleased.

  “Right, the Vulgar Latin was ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ and my source said that in Classical Latin the equivalent phrase is ‘a persona est confessio veri’ and that they both mean ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true.’” He gazed at her hopefully. “Does that mean anything to you? In the history of religion stuff?”

  She gave nothing away. “It might do. Do you have anything else?”

  “Aye.” He quoted verbatim. “He said it originated from a phrase
‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’ which means that a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture. Apparently it’s a phrase linked to the Spanish Inquisition, meaning that confessions following torture were considered to be made of the confessor's free will and completely valid.”

  Teddy Rustin gazed past him with a mysterious smile, as if she was deciding whether or not to reveal something. Liam watched her, puzzled. Something felt wrong but he couldn’t work out whether it was his hangover-distorted imagination or his copper’s gut. Before he could choose, she spoke again.

  “I wrote my doctoral thesis on them. The Spanish Inquisition; ‘The myth versus the truth.’”

  He smiled. “Catchy. You should have turned it into a novel, like those ones about Opus Dei.”

  The academic gave a distant smile. “Perhaps someday.” She walked over to a shelf and lifted a bound volume, turning it so Liam could see her name embossed on the spine. “This is my thesis. Eighty thousand words.”

  The number made his headache worse.

  He gazed at her curiously. “OK then, what was the difference? Between the myth and the truth I mean.”

  “You should read it and find out.”

  Liam smiled. He could barely get through a newspaper with the kids crawling over him every night.

  “Just give me the highlights.”

  She retook her seat, turning the thesis’ pages slowly as she talked. “The Inquisition was originally intended to ensure the orthodoxy of those who converted to Christianity from Judaism and Islam. Later they got slightly more involved in crimes against the church, but they were never as bad as they were painted.”

  Liam raised an eyebrow sceptically. “So basically you’re saying they just got bad press and all the torture and executions were a myth.”

  Rustin laughed; it was like a musical scale. “Let’s just say they didn’t do everything that the tabloids said they did. They just had strong beliefs, like a lot of people nowadays.” She leaned forward, fixing him with an inquisitive stare. “You still haven’t told me what your case is about.”