The Talion Code

by Catriona King

  Reggie gave a smile of relief. “Just sit there and agree with me. You’re the big guns. The right hand of Harrison, so to speak.” He saw another objection looming and added hastily. “That bit’s just implied, of course.”

  “OK, but it had better be quick. Fitzhenry won’t keep for long.”

  A minute later she was pushing Jackson Poulter’s tea detritus aside and settling herself at the interview room table. Poulter wasn’t amused by the interruption. He’d been gearing up to ask for a television to be brought in.

  “Here, my takeaway will be here soon.”

  Not as soon as he thought. Reggie had deferred its ordering until they’d emerged from the room.

  “Don’t worry; this won’t take long, Jackson.” He indicated Annette. “This is Inspector Eakin. Here to supervise.”

  Poulter sniffed and extended a hand that hadn’t seen soap for months. Annette touched it briefly then tucked her hands firmly beneath the desk to deter any further contact.

  “Inspector, eh. So you’re the boss of McGregor and him.” He gestured at Reggie condescendingly and the sergeant made a note to exact retribution by forgetting to milk Poulter’s next cup of tea. But for now he needed his help so he smiled through gritted teeth.

  “That’s right, Jackson, so anything you say here is confidential.” Criminals’ belief that the ability to keep secrets increased with rank was one of the myths that haunted the underworld. Reggie gestured casually at the tape. “You don’t mind if we record this, do you? My old memory’s not what it used to be.”

  He laughed confidingly, while Annette wondered idly if Reggie’s memory was really failing, and if so, if it could possibly be as bad as hers, currently swamped in hormones as it was. Poulter’s pitying nod went along with his condescension of a minute before. There’d be no sugar in his tea as well as no milk now.

  “Right now, Mr Poulter. We’re just making a record of everything that’s happened to date in your dealings with D.C. McGregor and D.C.S. Harrison. So…” Reggie rustled through some papers he’d brought along; scanning them intently as if everything Poulter had told the others was contained there. “If you could just repeat the alibi that you gave Mr Leslie Moriarty, please.”

  Poulter lounged back in his seat and stared at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there. “I says that Les was with me in my squat. Stoned.”

  “And could you remind us of the date and time?”

  “Tenth of April last year. All day.”

  The date Joe Moriarty had been killed. He’d been well briefed.

  “And who first approached you about giving this alibi?”

  Poulter glanced at him sharply. “You know all this. Why do I have to tell you again?”

  Reggie kept his voice calm and Annette smiled pleasantly, still wondering how much dirt could be transferred by a quick handshake.

  “Because we need a full record, Mr Poulter. We have it all, but in different reports, so this is just pulling everything together.”

  Poulter adopted a wise expression and nodded his head. “Aye, that makes sense.”

  Reggie was glad someone thought so. He repeated his question and Poulter answered in a bored tone.

  “Harrison came looking for me and asked if I could remember where I was that day. And if I remembered Les being with me.”

  Bingo. Harrison had led a witness.

  “So you said…?”

  Poulter wrinkled his face. “I wasn’t sure where I’d been at first. I was stoned a lot back then. But when he said he knew Les had definitely been with me I started remembering.”

  Reggie wanted to jump up and down in excitement, but instead he smiled encouragingly. “And the time of day. Did D.C.S. Harrison remind you of that as well?”

  Poulter gawped at him. “Aye. How did you know? He reminded me I’d bought take-out from McDonald’s fer breakfast and Les had been at my place when I’d got back.”

  The sneaky bugger! If Poulter had bought food at the city centre fast-food outlet that day, which it wouldn’t have been hard for Harrison to confirm from street cams, and if the addict had been using drugs heavily around then, which he had, then it was a short step to Harrison using those facts to convince him that he’d been with Les Moriarty all that day, providing him with an alibi. Poulter had probably been so off his head he’d have believed anything that an authority figure said.

  Reggie’s feelings shifted from annoyance to sympathy, suddenly seeing Poulter more as a victim than a criminal. A glance at Annette’s face said that she felt the same. Jackson Poulter hadn’t been lying deliberately; his addiction had been taken advantage of by Terry Harrison. In fact if Harrison had told Poulter he’d killed Joseph Moriarty he would probably have believed him and started to suffer the guilt.

  The information was a double-edged sword. Yes, it meant that Les Moriarty’s alibi was false and he was the murdering scrote that Craig had always thought, but now they had the problem of proving it without publically calling Harrison on his corruption. There was no doubt the day was coming when Craig and Harrison would face-off, but Reggie knew the boss would need more than a drug addict’s word to convince the police hierarchy that one of its chief superintendents was corrupt.

  He thought for a minute while he framed his last question. If Harrison had convinced Poulter that his meeting with Moriarty had really happened, it would be nigh on impossible to shake him on it. Chemical memories could be as solid as genuine ones. He remembered his own when he’d been given opiates for a fractured pelvis; if someone had told him he was the Tooth Fairy he would have believed it to that day.

  All they could do was show that Poulter was unreliable generally, unreliable enough to get any statement he made thrown out. That way Les Moriarty would stay banged up in Maghaberry and Harrison could imply he’d been misled by a confused man. They wouldn’t be able to prove that Harrison had been out to get Craig yet, but they could begin to gather evidence against him, starting with Poulter’s interview tape.

  Reggie asked his question. “What were you going to receive after you’d testified in court, Mr Poulter?”

  The pitiful figure, because that’s how they viewed him now, smiled and his eyes lit up.

  “I was getting a wee flat. Nothing fancy, mind, just a one bed. The superintendent said he’d swing it with the housing executive.” His face fell. “I’ve been on their bloody waiting list for years.”

  They left Poulter to await his takeaway and returned to the staff room, shaking their heads. Reggie spoke first.

  “Harrison’s a Class A bastard, but do you really think Carmen is in on his scam?”

  Annette shook her head instantly, surprising herself. But she had to be honest. Much as she didn’t like Carmen and she’d given the squad a lot of grief, she wasn’t a liar in her book.

  “No. This is one hundred percent Harrison. My guess is he only told Carmen about the alibi after he’d fixed it.” She sat down. “We should be able to disprove the alibi on grounds of Poulter’s unreliability and keep Moriarty in jail, but we can’t prove that Harrison actually coached Poulter yet. His word would never hold up.”

  Reggie made the tea. “OK, Harrison will still be free to keep trying to get rid of the boss, but I still reckon today’s interview tape is the first nail in his coffin. Mark my words; he’ll dig his own grave eventually.” He took some milk from the fridge as he talked. “Any chance we can get Poulter that flat?”

  Annette nodded firmly. “I’ll do my damnedest. I’ve a friend at the housing office and if Poulter’s been on their list for years as he said, he must be due a break soon. Meanwhile let’s fix him up with a detox place.”

  The sergeant gave a small smile. “I can do that.”

  Annette gestured at the teapot. “I’ll tell you what else you can do. You can pour me a cuppa, and then you’re coming with me to interview Tom Fitzhenry.”

  ****

  People believe what they can see and touch and often deny that the things they can’t see exist at all. Then
someone mentions electricity; you can’t see it so does that mean that it isn’t real? And air, and radio waves, we can’t see those so do they not exist? Does something being invisible make it fiction or a thing to be dismissed? Clearly not. But it does mean that we sometimes overlook it, noticing it only because of its effects.

  Just such invisible, underestimated forces are Wi-Fi and Bluetooth, yet most phones and computers emit and receive them, and they can access your life as easily as walking through your front door.

  ****

  Annette and Reggie were just about to leave for their next interview when Liam and Craig entered the small staff room. Craig waved them to wait a minute and dialled the office while Liam grabbed a biscuit and listened to one side of the call.

  “Call Andy back in and tell him to find out where Judge Standish is, Davy. I need that warrant for Jamison’s files ASAP. And gather as many people as you can for six-thirty. I want another quick round-up before we call it a day.”

  He clicked off and took a biscuit from the pack Liam was holding, then nodded Reggie to move up the couch and perched on its edge, turning to Annette as he did.

  “How did it go with Poulter?”

  Annette kept sipping her tea and nodded Reggie on. The idea that morning sickness ended considerately in week twelve of pregnancy was, in her experience, completely false. Tea and peppermint helped and so did ginger, so she’d resigned herself to smelling like a bag of boiled sweets for the next few months.

  Reggie rested his hands on his paunch and Liam sat beside Craig unconsciously mimicking the posture, making them look like reclining Buddhas on either side of Craig’s muscular frame. As the sergeant stared into space for a moment before starting Craig read a mixture of pathos and sympathy in his eyes.

  “Poulter get to you, Reggie?”

  “Aye. I’m not ashamed to admit that he did.” He shook his head. “He’s a poor wee soul and that’s a fact.”

  Liam smiled. “My mum used to say that about a wee man in our town.” His expression became rueful. “She used to give him all our sweet money. Still, I suppose it saved me from getting cavities.”

  Craig nodded. “Being a Heroin addict’s no joke. So did Harrison coerce him to give Moriarty an alibi then?”

  Reggie nodded. “Let’s just say that he played on Poulter’s confusion. We’ll be able to dump the alibi on grounds of witness unreliability, so the good news is that Moriarty won’t be getting out of Maghaberry any time soon.”

  Craig finished the thought. “Let me guess. The bad news is that if we try to prove Harrison coerced him it wouldn’t stand up.”

  “Not on its own.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that Harrison paid Poulter with something that we could use as proof?”

  Annette interrupted with a shake of her head. “He was cleverer than that. He said he’d get Poulter a one bed flat if he testified, but no testimony means no proof.”

  Liam was outraged. “Bastard! He’d have conveniently forgotten about that once Moriarty was free.”

  “Probably.” She turned to Craig. “With your permission, sir. I’ve a friend in housing and Poulter’s already on the waiting list, so I’m going to try to get him moved to the top.”

  Craig smiled. “You don’t need my permission to be kind, Annette.” He drained his cup and set it down, changing the subject. “So what’s this I heard about you lifting someone on the murder? Is it a suspect?”

  “More likely a witness. He’s called Tom Fitzhenry. He says he saw the victim the evening that he died.”

  “From the description we circulated?”

  “That and the fact he recognised him. His says his name is Dominic Guthrie, a partner at an accountancy firm they work with. Fitzhenry’s an actuary. He’s-”

  A guffaw from Liam cut her off. “An actuary, eh. What are the odds of that?” He gave Craig’s arm a bantering shove. “Get it, boss? Actuary; odds.”

  Craig replied in a droll voice. “The world of comedy lost out when you became a cop, Liam.”

  Liam’s eyes widened. “You mean that?”

  “No.” He turned back to Annette, ignoring Liam’s annoyed squint. “So Guthrie’s and Fitzhenry’s firms work together. It’s not so far-fetched I suppose, given Belfast is small and the finance world here even smaller. Any more details?”

  Annette stood up, shaking her head. “Not yet. When he said that, I realised he was either a useful witness or he’d killed our victim himself, and both required a formal interview.”

  “Good thinking. Was Guthrie one of Davy’s two missing men?”

  Her expression said she was lost.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll check it out. You carry on with your interview.”

  Suddenly Liam stood up and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the interview room with Annette.”

  “No you’re not. Reggie, you take this with Annette, please, and I’ll see you both at the office later.”

  Liam’s squint was joined by a sulky pout that Craig ignored. He headed for the car and after two minutes of driving Liam unclenched his lips enough to ask.

  “Why didn’t you let me take Fitzhenry with Annette?”

  Craig kept staring ahead, weaving his way through the traffic. When they hit the lights at Corporation Street he turned down the radio and answered in a voice that said Liam should already know what he was about to say.

  “Because Annette was leading.”

  “And? I can be supportive.”

  Craig’s tone changed to sceptical. “No you can’t. If someone’s a lower rank you automatically take charge.”

  Liam went to object, but Craig shook his head.

  “It’s not a criticism. Or, if it is, it’s one that I should level at myself as well. But you definitely do it, and as Annette found Fitzhenry she deserves to take the lead. Reggie will support that.”

  ****

  5.45 p.m.

  Liam was still arguing about it when they drove into the C.C.U.’s garage and he continued until they exited the lift ten floors above, by which time Craig had had enough of his moaning, so he strode across the floor and straight into his office, banging the door shut. After he’d done it he realised he was behaving just as childishly as Liam so he re-emerged and walked over to Davy’s desk.

  “Davy. The two missing men reports. Was one of them for a Dominic Guthrie?”

  Davy glanced up from his desk, surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Long story.”

  “W…Well, actually, Guthrie’s the only one missing now. The other guy turned up this afternoon with a hangover. Des is checking Guthrie’s passport and driving licence to see if he matches our man.”

  “The answer will be yes. Annette’s interviewing someone who saw Guthrie on Friday night in The Titanic Quarter.”

  He glanced around to see who else was there. Andy was back, so with Ash and Davy that made five of them. Craig shouted across the floor.

  “Andy. Any word on that Jamison warrant yet?”

  “I got it. Do you want me to do the search now?”

  “No.” He suddenly realised he was shouting so he walked across to his desk. “We’re briefing soon, so ask uniforms to do it. The usual C.S.I. stuff on Jamison’s office, then I want all the paper files brought here, and the computers taken to Doctor Marsham. Ash will go down tomorrow and help him go through them.”

  Ash’s head appeared above his computer. He looked half asleep. “What am I supposed to be doing?”

  Craig waved him down. “Tomorrow. Des will want to dust everything first and get the IT forensic team on it. I’ll tell you what I need before you go.”

  The analyst nodded tiredly. He’d been working for hours on the traffic files he’d finally wrestled off Gabe Ronson and he hadn’t gone to bed until three the night before, courtesy of a young lady that he’d met in Queen’s staff common-room, haven for lecturers and researchers who were afraid to enter the Students’ Union in case they got
gawped at for being too old.

  He wondered idly where he would meet women once they twigged that his membership had expired. They soon would; he’d finished his Master’s the year before and there was only so long that flashing a coffee loyalty card would fool the guy on the door. Davy smiled, reading his friend’s mind. He’d never been the type to pick up girls but Ash had been an expert at it all through their undergrad and postgrad years. Some of his chat-up lines had been cringe worthy, but one glance at his dark eyes and the ladies had been putty in his hands.

  Ash suddenly had an idea. Davy had just started a part-time doctorate, meaning he could access the common-room for at least three more years.

  He sidled across to his desk.

  “I’m just off to the canteen. Would you like me to bring you back a coffee?”

  Davy shook his head emphatically; not at the coffee but at the ploy that he could see coming a mile away.

  “No way. The last time you had that look I got roped into a half-naked photo-shoot. S…So whatever it is you want, I’m not doing it.”

  Ash feigned hurt. “A magazine shoot that paid for Maggie’s engagement ring, I seem to remember.”

  Davy shook his head. “I don’t care. The answer’s s…still no.”

  As Ash’s shoulders fell and he turned to leave, Davy made a fatal mistake. He got curious.

  “What was it you w…wanted anyway?”

  Ash got ready to tighten the line and reel him in. “It doesn’t matter.” He kept on walking.

  Davy leapt from his seat and followed him across the floor, his voice growing more insistent. “Tell me.”

  Ash stopped two feet from Liam’s desk and the detective watched, fascinated, as someone even craftier than him got to work.

  “Well… you know I met a girl last night.”

  “And? W…What happened?”

  A combination of Davy’s nosiness and Ash’s lifelong love of movies, that ensured he could give an acting performance to do Meryl Streep proud, resulted in a sorry tale of love thwarted by a lack of teenager-free venues in Belfast for them to socialise in, and the eventual ‘loan’ of Davy’s staff common-room card for the night, which, “after all mate, you won’t need this evening ’cos you and Maggie will be loved up at home.”