The Talion Code Read online

  “I’ll need you to sign some papers. I’ll bring them round this evening and we can do the transfer then and there.”

  Excellent. He’d be moored off Santo Domingo by the weekend.

  “Just make sure you’ve used untraceable details. I’ll see you here at seven o’clock.”

  The line went dead, leaving Dominic Guthrie staring at his mobile and swearing at his office walls. Untraceable indeed! Talk about teaching your grandmother to suck eggs! As if he was really going to put R. Jamison and D. Guthrie at the top of every page! He swore for a moment longer and then walked to the sideboard to pour himself a stiff drink. He needed it to calm his nerves. After all, what they were about to do had never been attempted, but if it worked then he and his family would be greeting twenty-sixteen in Isla de Margarita.

  ****

  High Street Station. 5.30 p.m.

  Annette and Liam were in the staff room when Craig entered with Jack Harris by his side. Craig raised an eyebrow at the scene.

  “Got a confession already?” A glance at Liam’s face revealed he looked exhausted so he reigned his sarcasm in. “Let me guess. Foster’s stonewalling so you’re taking a break.”

  Annette answered with a nod. It was as tired as Liam looked. The D.C.I. swung his long legs down from the coffee table and waved the others towards a cooling pot of tea.

  “There’s some left in it, although it might be stewed.” He smiled ruefully. “I know how it feels. That Aaron’s a stubborn bugger and no mistake.”

  As Craig poured he was thinking of a tactful way to get more detail, then he gave up on diplomacy and took a shot straight from the hip.

  “Tell me how a civilian managed to stonewall two experienced detectives all the way from Portavogie, and by the look of it he’s still managing it here?” His voice grew louder by the word, until it was loud enough to make Liam sit up straight. “For heaven’s sake, buck up. He outsmarted us on the run for two months; I’m not having him outsmart us again on our own turf!”

  Liam gave him a pleading look. “But he’s said nothing but ‘no comment’ for the past hour, boss.” He sounded as petulant as a toddler and Annette cut in before Craig said as much.

  “That’s not quite true, sir. He also said he won’t tell us anything until he talks to Jake.” She folded her arms defiantly. “As if Jake would ever agree!”

  Craig took a sip of tea so thick he almost spat it out and went to re-fill the kettle. As it boiled he turned back to the others.

  “I’ve just seen Jake and he wants to do it. Before he comes back to work on Monday.”

  He braced himself for Annette’s squeal of pleasure and Liam and Jack throwing up the reasons why Jake wasn’t ready to come back. He was wrong on all counts. Jack continued washing out the tea-pot before filling it with fresh bags, Annette gave a worried frown but said nothing and Liam continued slurping tea that was so strong it could have stripped the lead off a church roof.

  Craig scanned their faces quizzically. “No objections? I thought you’d find all sorts of reasons why Jake should stay at home.”

  Liam drained his cup and shrugged. “Time he was back. He must be bored rigid watching daytime TV. Honestly, the crap they put on: funeral plans and re-runs.”

  A small smile replaced Annette’s frown. “I’ve just realised - Reggie can do the street work till Jake’s back on his feet. As long as he stays in the office, I think it’s great that he’s coming back.” The frown returned. “But I don’t think it’s great that he and Aaron might have a face-to-face. It could set Jake back months.”

  Craig filled his mug with instant coffee, stirring it for a second before heading for the door.

  “Let’s try Foster again, but if he really won’t speak then letting them meet might be the only way to make progress.”

  Liam reached for the fresh tea that Jack had just made but Craig shook his head.

  “Don’t get comfortable, Liam; you’re with me. Annette, you can wait here until we’ve finished or head back to the ranch now; your choice.”

  As the men exited Jack smiled at her; it deepened when they heard Liam’s next words.

  “She gets more tea just ’cos she’s pregnant.”

  And Craig’s reply. “And when you manage to get pregnant I’ll do the same for you.”

  ****

  Craig gazed through the viewing room glass then looked at Liam sceptically. According to the log they’d arrived back from Portavogie with Foster at four-forty-five and interviewed him thirty minutes later. Nowhere in that gap had he been given time to wash his face or comb his hair and Craig could smell the stale sweat and filth off him, even through the glass. He looked like he’d spent a week hiding in a compost truck.

  Liam gazed around him, trying to ignore Craig’s stare. Eventually he caved.

  “OK, what?”

  Craig kept looking until the D.C.I. finally had the grace to blush.

  “Oh, all right then. So he could do with a wash. What do you expect after two months on the run?”

  “I expect you to allow him his Human Rights. A shower, some food and a solicitor!”

  He didn’t really, in fact he didn’t give a monkey’s if Aaron Foster was starving, freezing and filthy forever more; he’d almost killed one of his team. But as the boss he was supposed to say the right things, even if he didn’t believe them. Liam was unrepentant.

  “He didn’t want a brief and he had tea and toast. That’ll do him for now.”

  Craig rolled his eyes, but parked Foster’s shower and change of clothes until he’d had a go at him as well. He ushered Liam out the door and into the interview room, knowing that Jack and Annette would take their places as soon as they left.

  Craig stood in the interview room doorway, gazing at the man who’d waited in the dark to cold-bloodedly push the man he’d loved down twelve stairs, onto a stone floor below. What made Aaron Foster tick? Oh, he understood jealousy all right; the sting of rejection by someone you love, that feeling of powerlessness when they preferred someone else. It had eaten him up several times in his life, from a girl he’d liked at school who’d preferred a boy who’d reached puberty early, to his pain the week before, when Katy had talked about a male doctor that she really enjoyed working with. But it had passed quickly both times, safe in the knowledge that eventually he would have a growth spurt, and that Katy would never dream of being unfaithful with another man. Only once in his life had he experienced the sort of jealousy that had made him want to kill, and that had been with Camille. He’d loved her for nine years after they’d met in London and she’d left him, in theory to further her acting career in New York, but in practice also to have an affair with a director there who could help her achieve fame.

  He’d wanted to strangle the man with his bare hands; he’d even fantasised about it. How he would wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze until his face turned crimson, until the last breath had left his body and he fell lifeless to the floor. But that was all it had been, a fantasy, he would never have done anything about it and his anger was certainly never directed towards the person that he loved. That required a different beast to the one he was. The beast that was facing them now.

  And to do it coldly, dispassionately; to plan. To fake a work trip that would take him miles away and then drive back to wait in darkness until Jake had arrived home. That was no crime of passion, not unless Aaron Foster’s passion ran both hot and cold. There was no mitigation in his case. It was attempted murder and if Jake had died it would have been murder with premeditation that Foster would have been sentenced on.

  As the thoughts ran through Craig’s mind, Liam watched the hardening of his face, suddenly understanding why he’d been brought back into the interview room. He wasn’t there to ask questions; he was there to stop Craig beating Foster to a pulp. It seemed to be part of his job description to control the boss’s temper when it ran too hot.

  Craig’s words broke the increasing tension, without diminishing it in any way.

  “D
o you want a solicitor?”

  Everyone knew he was hoping that Foster would say no. The ex-rugby player didn’t disappoint.

  “I’ve already said no. I want to see Jake.”

  “When you’ve answered our questions.”

  A flash of eagerness crossed the prisoner’s face. “He’ll see me? I need to explain.”

  Craig was unrelenting. “You need to explain to us first.”

  He nodded Liam to turn on the tape then scraped back a chair and sat as far away from Foster as he could without actually leaving the room. Liam remained standing; he could intervene faster that way. A smile twitched Craig’s lips as he read his deputy’s mind but it was short-lived. He resumed his monotone.

  “You’ve been read your rights, Mr Foster. Recount the events of the evening of Saturday the tenth of October, two thousand and fifteen.”

  His lack of politeness made Annette turn to Jack in the viewing room.

  “He’s not normally like that.”

  Jack shrugged. “There’s nothing in the manual that says you have to be nice. Just civil. He’s being that.”

  She snorted. “Barely.”

  “Barely’s fine with me.”

  On the other side of the glass Aaron Foster muttered something. Craig made out only one word. “Jake”.

  “I’ve told you. You have to explain to us first. Take it or leave it.”

  On the final word he rose and turned towards the door. Foster jumped up in his seat.

  “NO!”

  Craig’s response was just as quick. “No what? No, you won’t talk? If that’s it then the only time you’ll see Jake again is at your trial.” His voice took on an edge that Liam had heard only rarely. “Or no, don’t go, because you want to talk. Make up your mind, Mr Foster. Now. Because I’ve better things to do than talk to you.”

  Foster hit his chair again with a thud, then he dropped his face into his hands and started to sob, his bulky shoulders heaving with the effort. Craig watched him impassively, picturing the force with which he must have pushed Jake down the stairs. After a moment he nodded Liam to take a seat. There was no risk that he’d lose his temper now; Aaron Foster was a broken man.

  “Mr Foster will talk to you now, D.C.I. Cullen. I’ll send Inspector Eakin in to join you.” He pulled at the door handle, adding. “When you’re satisfied with his statement, get him a shower and some food, and arrange for Detective Sergeant McLean to be brought to the station tomorrow.”

  He disappeared from one side of the glass to appear a moment later on the other.

  “You’re up, Annette. Jack and I will watch from here.”

  Neither man spoke for the next ten minutes, as Aaron Foster outlined how he’d planned his revenge on his lover for weeks, just waiting for the signs that Jake was about to end their relationship before executing it. As he sobbed about how sorry he was, Craig stared through the glass unblinking, wondering if his own temper could ever land him in an interview room. Maybe in a flash of anger, but never with weeks of premeditation like Foster, a man whose jealous fantasy had become all too real.

  ****

  It would have been hard to guess who’d be the more laid back of the two detectives, but in reality Reggie’s worldly-wise considered pace seemed positively dynamic compared to Andy’s lethargy. From the moment they’d climbed into Reggie’s reliable Volvo, bought second-hand five years before with only twenty thousand on the clock and washed lovingly every Sunday followed by a coat of wax that would have done a limousine valet service proud, and Andy had arranged himself almost horizontally in the passenger seat, reaching into his pocket for a caramel, Reggie had seemed like a veritable Olympic sprinter in terms of energy, despite conceding a good ten years to the other man.

  The speed with which he’d snatched the chocolate from his senior officer’s hand, while simultaneously checking his mirrors and reversing from a tight space, confirmed that biological age rarely counted; what mattered in this world was motivation, and Reggie’s motivation to keep his upholstery caramel-free made him a teenager to Andy’s pensioner.

  The trip to Maghaberry was punctuated by Andy’s moans and Reggie’s response of cranking his CD up even higher; his car, his tunes, and there were only two types of tunes in Reggie World: country, and western, preferably together in a mix. They pulled off the M1 to the sound of Tammy Wynette ‘Standing by Her Man’ and flashed their I.D.s at the gate guard as her D-I-V-O-R-C-E went through. The trip had been Andy’s idea of hell; no chocolate and a bunch of cowboys singing about ‘luv’ for twenty miles. Next time they went anywhere he was driving, and he’d be rocking Bon Jovi all the way.

  Les Moriarty looked as pissed off as Andy felt when they entered the interview room, barely giving the detectives time to sit before he started chewing them out.

  “This is ripping the ass out of it! That’s twice in one day that I’ve been hauled in here by you lot. What do you want this time?”

  He lounged back in his chair defiantly, his pouting mouth making him look like a sulky kid. Andy lurched forward to close the gap, his elbows almost vertical on the table and Reggie fought the urge to yank him back. Bully boy tactics were all very well when you wanted a confession from someone, but they were there to get information, specifically information on what Terry Harrison was up to but would never tell Craig. In the spirit of ‘if you can’t beat them join them’ Reggie decided to even things up. He adopted the same posture as Moriarty and smiled, his low voice taking on a chocolate tone.

  “We’d like your help.”

  If he’d added ‘please, Les’ he couldn’t have sounded more conciliatory. The words earned him a sharp glance from Andy as his mouth opened ready to retort. Reggie’s opened faster. He accompanied his next words with a postural shift that knocked Andy’s elbows onto his knees, leaving them both eye to eye with their guest.

  “We know that you’ve been interviewed by Superintendent Harrison’s team, Les, and that they have some new information about…”

  What happened next showed the difference between thirty years’ experience on the street versus getting your D.C.I. rank from a pile of books. As Reggie paused very deliberately, ostensibly to pour himself a glass of water, Les Moriarty leaned forward, desperate to demonstrate that he had the upper hand. A tricky thing to achieve when you were banged up and the two men opposite you got to go home at the end of the day.

  Superiority is a funny thing. Some people say that it’s just a perception; an impression created in someone’s mind by their rival’s absolute self-belief. Others say that it’s real but relative, to the people that you’re with and their situation in life. But hierarchies, even those backed up by rank and finance, sometimes exist only in other people’s minds. A third group says that superiority depends on power; which person can influence your life for good or ill? Les Moriarty subscribed to the third definition and, as far as he was concerned, superiority in prison was all about information and he held the information that Reggie Boyd was just about to spill.

  Except that Reggie wasn’t; just about to spill it that was. He hadn’t a single clue what new information Harrison’s team had found or fabricated, or what the magic words were that were going to spring Moriarty from jail. Just as Craig hadn’t. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Les Moriarty thought Reggie knew and that he’d been about to say it, so, like all stupid people, Moriarty just had to show how superior he was by showing that he’d known it first.

  And that was all it took to get the information they’d come for. A brief pause. Not elbow leaning intimidation, or even a marginally raised voice, just Reggie Boyd’s relaxed approach to life and a well-placed pause while he poured a glass of water, and Les Moriarty told them exactly what they’d come to find out.

  ****

  The C.C.U. 6.30 p.m.

  The briefing was brief, as they were supposed to be but rarely were, and as everyone dispersed to spend their Friday night doing whatever life had planned for them, Craig wandered over to Davy’s desk. The an
alyst glanced up as he approached, shutting down his PC screen quickly as he did, an action that Craig didn’t miss. He also didn’t miss Davy’s quick glance at Ash. The two of them were up to something and he was curious, but he trusted Davy enough to know that when they had anything worth sharing he would be the third person to know.

  “Davy, do you have time to update me on your Interpol work now?”

  Davy cast a quick look at the clock and went to rise. Craig waved him back down.

  “My office is freezing, so let’s do it here.” He grabbed a chair and angled it towards Ash, who was packing some things into his bag. “Ash, before you go. Is there anything more on that road traffic victim from Wednesday?”

  Ash opened a small pad, nodding. “Alison Briars? She’s not great. She has a fractured pelvis and a concussion. She’s still in a coma in St Mary’s High Dependency Unit.”

  “Damn. What about the driver?”

  “Still insisting that the lights turned green-”

  Craig shook his head. “Which is no bloody reason to drive over someone.”

  He paused, his expression saying he was wondering whether or not to say what was on his mind. Ash saved him the bother.

  “I checked out the two witnesses, Miskimmon and Corneau. They’re both students: engineering and literature. Completely clean. No records, no past witness statements-”

  Craig opened his mouth to interrupt. He shut it again as Ash read his mind.

  “And no, they’re not linked in any way. Not to the victim, driver or each other. Looks like they were just random passers-by.”

  Looks like. Except that the niggling feeling he’d had about Corneau’s coldness wasn’t going away.

  “OK, thanks, Ash. Go home and enjoy your evening.”

  He didn’t miss the sympathetic look the blue haired analyst shot Davy as he left. Craig smiled. Friday night and you’re stuck talking to the boss; it would have seemed like hell to him too when he was young. He turned back to Davy and noticed how well he was looking; not like a man who needed sympathy at all.