Talion

by Pete Brassett

  ‘A Kit-Kat. I could’ve sworn I had a flipping Kit-Kat somewhere.’

  ‘You can chew the fat with Barbary instead. That’ll sate your appetite, for now.’

  * * *

  Although he’d not been the subject of an inquiry for several years, Jack Barbary – no stranger to the interview room – had learned from experience that, with a fuse as short as a candle wick and a mouth that worked independently of his brain, it was best to say nothing until his solicitor arrived.

  He sat with his legs spread and his arms folded, glowering at West as she removed her coat while Munro took a seat beside her.

  ‘It’s been a few years since your last visit, Mr Barbary,’ he said, ‘I trust your room’s okay? Everything up to scratch?’

  Barbary stared blankly at Munro, his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth.

  ‘Well, as you’re in such a talkative mood, I suggest we crack on. Charlie, the microphone’s all yours.’

  West allowed herself a wry smile and stabbed the voice recorder with her index finger.

  ‘The time is six minutes past eight, on the twenty-third,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m DS West, also in attendance is DI Munro. Would you identify yourself, please.’

  ‘Jack Barbary.’

  ‘And do you understand why you’re here?’

  ‘I do. But I’m not saying a word without my brief.’

  Munro sat back and smiled.

  ‘That is your prerogative, Mr Barbary,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure how long he’ll be.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Very good. Then we’ll leave the caution until he gets here, in the meantime, you’ll not mind if we just chat amongst ourselves. So, Charlie, what do you know about Tommy Hamlyn?’

  ‘Not much,’ said West. ‘I haven’t been here long enough.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. Well, he was a clever chap, you know. Intelligent. Not like the meatheads who use muscle to get what they want. No, no, Tommy used his brain. It’s a shame really, he’d have gone far in his chosen field.’

  ‘Really?’ said West. ‘So, you reckon he’d be involved with the internet somehow, online fraud, something like that? If he was still around, that is.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Now, tell me about those boots. Those Wellington boots they found at the spot where Tommy fell from the cliff. What size did you say they were?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Twelve?’ said Munro, feigning surprise. ‘Good grief. You’d have to be a big chap to have feet like that. Do you think Mr Barbary here would take a twelve?’

  ‘Nah,’ said West, ‘I reckon he’s got small feet. Teeny-weeny feet. And you know what they say about small feet? Small…’

  ‘I’ve a twelve!’ snapped Barbary. ‘And I’ll prove it by shoving it right up your…’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Barbary,’ said West. ‘Threatening a police officer? That wouldn’t do now, would it? How’s the leg, by the way? The left leg?’

  Barbary, his face flushed, took a deep breath and held it.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my leg,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. I thought you had a limp. When we called on you on earlier, I thought I saw you walking with a limp.’

  ‘You’re mistaken.’

  ‘Well, we all make mistakes. Just you and your wife at home, is it?’

  Barbary said nothing.

  ‘I mean, your son – Joey, isn’t it? Does he live with you?’

  ‘That tattooed dunderhead is not my son. He’s my stepson. He came with Annette. That was the deal.’

  ‘Deal?’ said Munro. ‘That’s an odd turn of phrase for a marriage. Did you happen to purchase Annette? Was she advertised on one of those find a friend websites?’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck, Munro, you’d be wise to watch your mouth.’

  ‘Pot and kettle, Mr Barbary. So, your stepson, he doesnae live with you, then?’

  ‘No. And unless he’s working, he’s to stay out of my way.’

  ‘But he has access to the house? A set of keys.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Barbary. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Is that why you gave him a job?’ said West. ‘To keep Annette happy? Was that a part of the deal?’

  ‘I’ve not given him a job. He’s casual labour,’ said Barbary. ‘Very casual. I pay him when I need him.’

  West turned to Munro and frowned inquisitively.

  ‘I wonder if he knew Tommy Hamlyn?’ she said.

  ‘I dare say it’s possible,’ said Munro, ‘in fact, working with Mr Barbary, I’d say it’s quite likely.’

  ‘Of course!’ said West. ‘I think we should invite him in for a cup of tea, don’t you? A nice, sit down and a chat.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ said Barbary, his patience fraying.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Barbary, but that’s not for you to decide,’ said Munro. ‘I think DS West is right. After all, if you and your wife are telling the truth, then it seems to me he’s the only other person who could have used your telephone. So, where would we find him?’

  Barbary glowered at Munro.

  ‘Wherever there’s cash to be had,’ he said. ‘Behind the bar at Geordie’s. Or the car wash. Or cleaning up crap at the holiday park.’

  ‘And where does he stay?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Ask Annette.’

  Munro, teasing his prey in much the same way a cat would toy with an injured bird, left his chair and walked, hands clasped behind his back, slowly around the room.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, ‘Mr Barbary says he’s not seen Hamlyn since that young DC was found hanging in the abattoir, so I’m wondering if he kept in touch with his other pal, the other wee monkey he used to hang around with.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that Tamarin geezer,’ said West. ‘Can’t see why, but then again, if Barbary topped Hamlyn, then maybe he’s got Tamarin in his sights, too.’

  ‘You’re pissing in the wind, Inspector,’ said Barbary, sneering as he cracked his knuckles, ‘and for your information, I see Alex once a year. That’s it.’

  ‘Once a year?’ said West. ‘Hardly worth the effort. What is it? Some kind of reunion? A few pints and a bite to eat?’

  ‘He files the returns. Every September.’

  ‘Files the returns?’ said Munro. ‘My, my, he has come a long way. It must’ve taken years for him to qualify as an accountant.’

  ‘He’s not an accountant…’

  ‘Like your wife?’ said West.

  ‘…he just knows how to do things. He’s an advisor. A financial advisor.’

  ‘Well-versed in off-shore accounts, no doubt,’ said Munro. ‘Tell me, have you not considered employing somebody qualified to do the job?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Och, I think you’ll find there is. Especially once HMRC have taken a look at your books. Where does he stay these days? Your dear friend Mr Tamarin?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Barbary, scowling as Munro returned to his seat. ‘He has an office in Kilmarnock, somewhere. That’s all I know. You’ll have to ask Annette.’

  ‘We will,’ said West as her phone pinged with the arrival of a text message. ‘Do excuse me, I know it’s rude, but I really should read this.’

  West smiled, held up the phone and showed it to Munro.

  ‘You say you’re not one for the internet, Mr Barbary,’ he said. ‘The world wide web, email, that kind of thing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, oddly enough, that’s something we have in common. But you do… you do have an email address, do you not?’

  ‘For business.’

  ‘So, can you tell us who Talion is then?’ said West. ‘One of your clients, perhaps?’

  ‘Talion?’ said Barbary. ‘I’ve never heard of no Talion.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape,’ said Munro, ‘DI West is using her smartphone to show Mr Barbary a copy of an email found on his computer. It simply reads: Hamlyn. Full stop. You’re humped.’

  ‘Sounds like someone was trying to give you the heads
-up about something,’ said West. ‘Any ideas?’

  Barbary drew a breath and crossed his arms.

  ‘No comment,’ he said. ‘No comment.’

  * * *

  Munro, amused by the spring in her step, followed West at a leisurely pace to the end of the corridor where she waited impatiently for him to catch up.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she said, grinning optimistically. ‘For starters, we could do him for threatening a police officer.’

  ‘Och, it’s not worth the paperwork, lassie.’

  ‘Well, we should definitely have a word with his stepson.’

  ‘Aye. Agreed. But more to the point, Charlie, what about Barbary? What does your instinct tell you about the man himself?’

  ‘Guilty as hell,’ said West. ‘I reckon we should charge him.’

  ‘On what basis?’

  ‘Basis? It’s all there, Jimbo! He gets an email from this Talion bloke and the next day Hamlyn’s dead. What more do you need?’

  ‘You’re assuming he’d seen that email before,’ said Munro.

  ‘Of course, he must have.’

  ‘So, you’re confident it’s him?’

  ‘Yeah, well, ninety percent,’ said West.

  ‘What you have is ninety percent circumstantial, Charlie. How will you prove it?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘No witnesses, no evidence, and no forensic data to place him at the scene. Any fiscal worth his weight wouldnae give it a second look, lassie. My advice to you is to let him go.’

  ‘Let him go?’ said West incredulously. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Quite possibly, but if it was me, I’d release him and keep an eye on him. A close eye on him. See where he goes, who he visits, Tamarin especially. Of course, if you think otherwise, then you’re the one who’s leading…’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ said West, ‘I wasn’t thinking straight, I’m tired and I miss my Kit-Kat. Okay, look, his brief hasn’t showed up, so I’ll get Joey’s details off him, send him on his way, and see you upstairs.’

  * * *

  Longing to tickle something other than trout, Dougal – recognising his irritation at Duncan’s hasty departure as a manifestation of his own jealousy – concluded that fishing would never offer up the social opportunities he so craved and, as a solitary pursuit, was nothing more than a diversion from the puzzling perplexities associated with a life of crime.

  With Joe Doyle formally charged and the SPR ready to send to the fiscal, he took a moment to explore an alternative avenue and sat perusing the website of a local scooter club, entranced by the image of a trendy young girl in white jeans straddling a Vespa, until conceding that, with his conservative dress sense and the social skills of a hermit crab, he’d be better off dating a librarian than riding out with a pack of alluring nymphets.

  Sighing with defeat, he closed the browser and pulled the menu for the Chinese take-away from his bag as Munro, looking in need of a stiff drink and a lie-down, entered the office.

  ‘Boss!’ he said. ‘I thought you were long gone.’

  ‘No, no. We’ve been downstairs with Jack Barbary. Charlie’s on her way up now.’

  ‘You look done in, are you okay?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Munro. ‘It’s been a long day, that’s all.’

  ‘And Barbary?’

  ‘We’re letting him go.’

  ‘Letting him go?’ said Dougal. ‘Are you joking me? I thought…’

  ‘Like I said, the man’s Teflon-coated, laddie. It’s true, we could hold him a wee while longer, but frankly, I cannae see the point.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Dougal as West all but fell through the door.

  ‘Those stairs are killing me,’ she said. ‘And I’m starving. Dougal, are you still here?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Where’s Duncan?’

  ‘He’s taken himself off, he had a prior… engagement.’

  ‘While you…?’

  ‘While I looked after Joe Doyle, charged him, completed the Police Report, and…’

  ‘That’s not on,’ said West, ‘it might be late but that’s no excuse. Ring him before you go, tell him I want him here at seven am or he’s on a warning, okay?’

  ‘Is that not a bit harsh, miss?’ said Dougal, ‘I mean, he’s just…’

  ‘We’re a team, Dougal. If he’d stayed here and pulled his weight, you’d be home by now, as well.’

  ‘Aye, right enough, I suppose.’

  ‘So, what’s this about charging Doyle?’ said Munro. ‘You’ve obviously had a busy evening.’

  ‘Aye, boss. You could say that. We caught him red-handed, flogging gear to all the party-goers on the night bus.’

  ‘What kind of gear?’ said West.

  ‘MDMA, miss. Ecstasy. He had a bag-load of it. I’ve charged him with possession, and supply, and I’ll probably add theft once I find out where he got it from.’

  ‘You think he nicked it off Hamlyn?’ said West.

  ‘Maybe. After all, he was with him the night his flat was trashed. Incidentally, he’s got previous too. GBH.’

  ‘Really? When was he done for that?’

  ‘A few years back. He used to work as a bouncer before he joined the buses.’

  ‘So, you’re thinking…?’

  ‘I’m thinking, maybe they had a bust-up, Doyle got a bit shirty and left with a bagful of goodies.’

  ‘Well, it’s worth a shot. Nice one, Dougal.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Munro. ‘Now, if anyone deserves to clock-off, laddie, it’s you. On you go.’

  ‘Not just yet, boss. I want to see Doyle before I go.’

  ‘Dougal,’ said Munro sternly. ‘The man’s been charged. He’ll not get to court until tomorrow afternoon, if you’re lucky. You can talk to him in the morning.’

  ‘Okay, if you insist. Oh, before I forget, we found an address for Alex Tamarin.’

  ‘Great,’ said West, ‘because even if he did know, Barbary’s not saying a word.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. We couldn’t actually find anyone called Tamarin. This is a firm of financial advisors called Tamar. It’s the closest we could get, but they are in Kilmarnock.’

  ‘If they’re financial advisors, then we’re on the money,’ said West. ‘Is that far? Kilmarnock?’

  ‘Half an hour, miss.’

  ‘Forty-five in a Figaro,’ said Munro. ‘No home address?’

  ‘Nothing, boss.’

  ‘We’ll pay him a visit in the morning,’ said West, ‘just as soon as… oh, crap, are we doing this Facebook thing tomorrow? In the car park?’

  ‘We are,’ said Dougal, ‘unless you’d rather…?’

  ‘No, we can’t cancel. Okay, look, here’s what we’ll do: Dougal, you and me, we’ll go to Kilmarnock first thing and check out Tamarin’s office. Jimbo, you and Duncan have got the cars, so you two can take the car park. You okay with that?’

  ‘Perfectly, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘Perfectly. Now, much like yourself, I’m in need of some refreshment, the alcoholic variety, and a rather large steak.’

  Chapter 14

  Hidden amongst the clusters of caravans, the Brigs of Ayr – with its traditional décor, cheap beer, and a kitchen churning out the usual deep-fried fayre to accompany the burgers, steaks, and child-friendly portions of pizza – was much the same as any other pub-restaurant, but without the crowds. Or, for that matter, the atmosphere.

  Cathy Brodie, the only person in the bar, sat nursing what was left of her white wine spritzer when the barmaid, who appeared to have perfected the art of sleeping whilst standing up, woke with a jolt at the sound of a desperate voice shouting at her from across the room.

  ‘Pint of lager, please, hen. And a chaser, too.’

  ‘You made it!’ said Cathy as she turned to face a flustered Duncan.

  ‘Only just,’ he said, smiling cheekily. ‘Will you take another?’

  ‘Aye, go on then. Why not?’

  ‘Listen, Cathy, I’m not sure how
long I can stay. To be honest, I really shouldn’t be here at all.’

  ‘Why’s that, then? Is there a wife you’ve not told me about?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m in somebody’s bad books and I’ve an early start. Pig early. If I’m not in the office for seven, it’s the doghouse for me, and that means being tied to a desk for a couple of months.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Duncan, gulping his beer. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘Well, the sooner you get your head down,’ said Cathy, ‘the better.’

  ‘Are you giving me the heave-ho?’

  ‘I am not. I told you, Cam’s away with a friend, so you can stop here if you like.’

  ‘I see,’ said Duncan, taken aback by the unexpected offer. ‘Sorry, are you saying… I mean, no offence, but you don’t hang around, do you?’

  Cathy regarded him with a frown as the subtlest of smiles raised the corner of her mouth.

  ‘The caravan sleeps four,’ she said.

  Duncan, wishing there was trap-door beneath his feet, knocked back his whisky and laughed with embarrassment.

  ‘That was so rude of me,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry, really, I should never have…’

  ‘Listen, you dafty, I invited you over for a wee drink, that’s all. You have no idea how much I miss adult company. Let’s face it, there’s only so much you can talk to a wean about, especially when he’s smarter than yourself.’

  Duncan looked Cathy in the eye and smiled.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we’re good. So, will we take a bottle?’

  ‘We’ll have nothing to drink otherwise. I’m on the white.’

  * * *

  The caravan – often referred to as a chalet by those with social aspirations, or a glorified Portakabin by those who called a spade a spade – was a surprisingly spacious affair with two bedrooms, a fully-fitted kitchen, a dining area, and a large lounge furnished with two comfortable sofas.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ said Cathy as she opened the door, ‘it’s not exactly a suite at The Gleneagles.’

  By the time she’d pulled the curtains and settled, feet up, on the sofa, Duncan – an experienced hand when it came to rifling through other folk’s cupboards – had already located the corkscrew and poured the wine.