“No way. That’s a girl’s name.”
“No it isn’t. It’s a mythical spirit.”
The analyst wasn’t appeased. “Unless you want to become Farm Girl, we’re sticking to Smurf.”
Liam bowed. “Your wish is my command.”
****
When the briefing ended Craig beckoned Davy into his office.
“How would we go about finding out if Guthrie and Jamison were linked?”
Davy smiled at the simplicity of the request. “You mean apart from phoning their offices?”
Craig sat down behind his desk, laughing. “Don’t get smart just because you’ve been abroad for a while. Besides, it’s the weekend. No-one will be there.”
Davy pulled out a seat, joining him. “Not true. They were there this morning.” He smiled at Craig’s surprise. “I’ve already put Ash on Jamison. Well, onto every Richard Jamison in the North, actually. W…We didn’t have Guthrie’s name until now.”
Craig had to award him the point, although you would never have known it from his face. “What did you find out?”
Davy produced his smart-pad, turning it round for Craig to see. It showed lists of names.
“All these are business contacts. We produced a list for every Richard Jamison.”
The amount of information required to rule something in or out was staggering. He tapped again.
“This is for the Jamison who’s currently at High S…Street.” His finger moved down the list until it reached the name Guthrie. “And he definitely did business with the firm of Guthrie and Son.”
Craig nodded, openly admiring now. “Do you know when it started?”
“Twenty-two years ago, w…with Raphael Guthrie. He was our victim’s dad.”
Craig rested back, steepling his fingers. “Hence the Guthrie and Son. I’m assuming Dominic inherited the firm when his father retired?”
Davy shrugged. “Looks like it but I’ll need to check.”
“OK… so…Dominic Guthrie and Richard Jamison knew each other well.”
Davy’s expression said ‘not so fast’. “We don’t know that, chief. That’s assuming that Jamison did business directly with the head of the company, but he could just have easily have w…worked with one of Guthrie’s account managers. That’s the sort of detail I need to check out.”
Craig wasn’t being diverted. “But it’s odds on that Jamison knew him. He knew his father and it’s too much of a coincidence that Guthrie dies and someone phones it in giving Jamison’s name.”
“Maybe.”
Craig smiled. This was where instinct and logic parted company. Davy was all about the logic. He was a scientist and what he could see and touch was what he believed. He liked facts as well, but in the gap between facts that sometimes went against what he believed and the truth was gut instinct and it had never failed him yet.
“OK, humour me for a minute.” Just then he thought of something. “Where’s Richard Jamison’s office?”
Davy’s face said that he was on the right track. “In the Titanic Quarter. Five blocks from where the body was found.”
But Craig wasn’t ready to gloat yet. “And he’s in import/export?”
“Amongst other things.”
“OK, Jamison was lifted at Dublin Airport at nine a.m. readying to board a Boston flight. Any idea what time he’d booked in?”
Another tap on the screen.
“Seven-forty-five.”
“And it takes about two hours to get to Dublin airport from Belfast. Add in drop off or parking and transit time inside the terminal and we’re looking at Jamison leaving Belfast no later than five a.m.”
Eight hours after Guthrie had been killed. It told them nothing. Craig glanced out at the river and noticed that the rowers were too far downstream again. Any minute now the warden’s boat would appear to shoo them back. Davy took advantage of the pause.
“Guthrie died around nine.”
Craig focused back on the smart-pad.
“So Jamison could have killed Guthrie with plenty of time left to get to the airport. So let’s say he followed him, found something heavy enough to crush his skull with, then drove home, collected his wife and was off down the M1 in time for their flight.” He screwed up his face. “No. I don’t like it. It feels wrong. Plus, why would Jamison have incriminated himself by calling it in?” He shook his head. “No. Jamison’s been up to some dodgy business, and it may well have involved Guthrie, but he didn’t kill him, of that I’m sure.”
“So whoever made the call w…was trying to frame Jamison?”
“Probably.” Craig rose to his feet. “OK. Tie down the details on Guthrie, please. I need to know where he was all day, what he was doing in the Titanic Quarter, and especially, did he meet with Richard Jamison.” He opened the door. “Liam and I will ask Jamison, but there’s no way we’ll get a straight answer, so the more you can find out the more ammunition we’ll have for our re-interview.”
Davy rose to leave.
“Send Liam in, please.”
One minute later Liam had taken Davy’s place at the desk and Craig brought him up to speed. Liam nodded at everything and then added a point of his own.
“What about Jamison’s wife?”
Craig was puzzled. “What about her? If you mean should we interview her, I’m pretty sure Lewiston will have told her to keep quiet.”
“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, does it? And it would fill the time till Davy comes back with the info on Jamison’s and Guthrie’s businesses.”
Craig nodded. “Fair point.” He raked a hand through his hair. It needed cutting. Whoever said hair growth slowed with age had obviously forgotten Italian men. He stopped raking and leapt up suddenly, yanking open the door. “Ash. Any news on the murder call?”
Annette clamped her hands over her ears. “Would you mind not shouting?”
He hadn’t, but he beckoned Ash across, just to be safe. The analyst shook his head as he approached.
“Jamison didn’t make the call to Stranmillis Station.”
“But it was on his phone!”
Annette stifled a laugh, but not at what they’d said. Craig’s hair was standing up almost as high as Ash’s, but where Craig’s was from irritable raking the analyst’s spike was deliberate, the product of hours in front of the mirror with a tub of gel if she was any judge. And as the mother of a teenage boy she definitely was.
Ash shrugged. “I checked Jamison’s phone. There was malware on it.”
“In English.”
“Someone had planted a programme on his phone that made it look like he’d dialled Stranmillis to report Guthrie’s death, but when I checked with the phone provider no such call was logged.”
“OK…” It backed up his feeling that Jamison had had nothing to do with Dominic Guthrie’s death. Next. “I don’t suppose you can trace where this malware came from? Or how it got onto Jamison’s phone.”
“Funny you should say that…”
Craig’s heart lifted.
“I picked up a line of code that traced back to an IP address, but…”
It dropped again.
“It dead ended somewhere in the Ukraine. I’ll keep looking but I wouldn’t hold your breath, chief. Sorry.”
“Thanks for trying. It was always a long shot.”
He re-entered his office and sat down, slinging his legs up on the desk.
“OK. We’ll see Jamison’s wife and then him again, but he’s not our murderer, I’m sure of that. What he is is a dodgy businessman and my bet is that he and Guthrie were up to something together.”
“Import/export scam?”
“Maybe, but that takes time. Guthrie was an accountant who did Jamison’s books, so my guess would be some sort of financial fraud.” He thought for a moment. “Did Jamison have a return flight booked?”
Liam shrugged. “Worth asking the boy.”
Craig gestured at the door. “Nip out and check, will you.”
A minute later Liam returned, looking surp
rised. “Davy says one way flights to the Dominican Republic via Boston for both Jamison and the wife. It looks like they were quitting the UK for good.”
Craig smiled and stood up. “Perfect.” He opened the door and headed for the lift as Liam hurried to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“Judge Standish’s, we need a warrant for Guthrie’s files and computers. And with Jamison’s business links with our victim, and his obvious intended skip from the country, we should have enough for another to gain access to their bank accounts.
****
The Malone Road, Belfast. 8 p.m.
Eugene Standish was just about to sit down to dinner when the doorbell rang twice, and it was far too late for the postman. Another man would have thrown down his napkin in irritation, but Standish merely tutted, long past the strong emotions of life, if he had ever actually felt their sting. He’d been a mild mannered schoolboy and a placid teen who had found his natural home amongst the dusty law library stacks at Queen’s. Everyone who’d ever known him said that he had the perfect temperament for the bench, although he’d had to endure years as a barrister and QC before attaining its lofty heights.
He hadn’t minded being a defence barrister; he’d been good at delivering soothing words to the oppressed and fighting for the greater good, but his stint in prosecution had almost killed him, often requiring a slug of whisky in the robing room before he could even enter court.
Still, ‘all’s well that ends well’ was the motto on his front gate and an adage that he firmly believed in in life. Now he sat in judgement with as much compassion as a judge could have and the only thing that ruffled his good humour slightly was when someone interrupted his meals. He was just on his way to deliver a few wags of the finger when he saw who had rung his bell through the front door’s glass and smiled. He liked both of the men who were standing there, in different ways. Liam Cullen made him laugh, even when he didn’t mean to, because he always said exactly what was on his mind, and Marc Craig was what he wished he could have been: fiery, fearless, a man who fought for what he believed.
So it was with a twinkle in his eye that the judge turned the lock, secretly wishing that he could break the rules and have the two men as dinner guests. He sighed to himself sadly; the press would call such socialising favouritism and use it as a stick with which to beat justice.
He opened the half-glass door with a warm but suitably judge-like expression.
“Good evening, Officers. What can I do for you?”
Craig smiled, certain that he’d seen a hint of amusement in the old man’s eyes. “We’re here to request two warrants, Your Honour.” He reached for the forms that Liam had completed on the drive there. Strangely the handwriting was no worse than his usual.
Standish turned on his heel and beckoned them to follow. When they were in his small, warm study he nodded them to a seat.
“Enlighten me.”
As Craig outlined the links between Guthrie and Jamison, Liam scanned the cosy room. It looked surprisingly normal for a judge’s. TV in one corner with a couch angled just so, and two chairs covered with throws and cushions with not a book anywhere in sight. He noticed a yellow ball in the corner and Standish saw him looking and smiled.
“My grandson’s. He’s thirteen and not supposed to play ball in the house, but…”
The smile that followed said that the judge was an indulgent grandfather. Suddenly Liam strode across the room and picked up what looked like a computer game. Craig wasn’t concerned. If he’d read Standish right at the front door then such behaviour was what he’d been hoping for from them, to brighten up a dreary day.
“Is this the new rocket one?”
Standish nodded eagerly. “It is. We played it last weekend. It’s awesome. Totally sick.”
The room quietened instantly as Standish realised what he’d said, Liam was stunned by his modern vocabulary and Craig waited to see what happened next. A second later Liam burst into laughter followed by the other two men, and as Eugene Standish signed the justified warrants they discussed the deterioration in adults’ language once a teenager entered their lives.
****
Annette checked her notepad for Dominic Guthrie’s address; it matched the woman’s who had reported him missing, ticking the loving marriage box. Davy had said there were three cars registered to the home but that none of them was a Porsche, so either Fitzhenry had been lying, except what would have been his reason? Or Dominic Guthrie had ditched his flash car sometime before. It figured; there were children in the family, the latest only one year old. It was a familiar story. A man playing out his youth in his fast motor until the cost of domesticity really hit home.
She was surprised then, when thirty minutes later Cecilia Guthrie updated them through her sobs. The slight blonde was crying so hard she was almost choking but Annette could just make out the words.
“My car…sold last summer.”
When Dominic Guthrie had met Fitzhenry he’d been driving his wife’s Porsche. All Annette’s prejudices about Peter Pan men evaporated and she had the good grace to berate herself. Women couldn’t go around crying sexism at men unless they were willing to admit that sometimes they did it themselves.
Her guilt trip was interrupted by Reggie asking a question. He leaned forward, touching the distraught wife’s hand in comfort before he apologetically asked her for more facts.
“We know there are three cars registered to this address, Mrs Guthrie.” He was answered by a nod and he swallowed hard before asking the question that he knew might worsen her tears. “Could I ask…which one was Mr Guthrie driving yesterday?”
Mr Guthrie, not, your husband. It had been deliberate. In his experience reminding someone of an emotional tie was only guaranteed to cause more upset. His tactic worked and she gazed past him into the distance, her eyes no wetter than before he’d asked.
“He took our small run-around; it’s a Golf TDI.”
The sergeant forged on while he had her focused. “Your other cars are a people carrier and a four by four?”
She nodded. “For the kids, and weekends on my in-laws’ farm.”
That was too much. The mention of children and in-laws made her think of her husband again, and with that the image of his body in the mortuary viewing room filled her mind and she turned pale.
Reggie sat back and Annette did the same, giving the young widow a moment to recover. Annette gazed around the warm sitting-room, taking in the detritus of children on the floor and imagining Mike’s flat in a year’s time. It was too small for five of them, but she couldn’t bring his new baby into the house that she’d once shared with Pete. That would be… Actually, she didn’t know exactly what it would be, but it certainly didn’t feel right. She, Amy and Jordan had stayed living there after Pete’s arrest and conviction, with her spending a few nights each week at Mike’s; but now there was a baby to consider it brought a whole new angle to things. As did the fact that Jordan, who’d once seen Mike as a temporary fix who’d made his mum happier, and so treated him with polite disdain, would have to get his head around the fact that the pathologist was a permanent fixture now and his dad was never coming home.
Cecilia Guthrie began to speak again, jolting Annette back to the here and now.
“Dom took the Golf yesterday because he had a meeting out of the office. That’s what he said anyway.” She glanced distractedly out at the driveway, as if she expected to see the run-around sitting there. “I wonder where it’s gone…”
Reggie answered. “When we find it we’ll return it to you. Do I take it that your husband didn’t normally take the car to work?”
“Yes. I mean, no, he didn’t.” She smiled, remembering. “Dom was a bit ‘Friends of the Earth’, you know. He preferred to take the bus or cycle whenever he could, and the bus from the bottom of our avenue runs straight into the city centre. Donegall Square. His office is just round the corner in Howard Street.”
Reggie wondered how Friends of the Ea
rth you could really be with three gas guzzlers to your name, but he nodded and smiled anyway, encouraging her on.
“He said he had a meeting yesterday that was a bit too far away to walk.”
A bit too far. The phrase conjured up the image of somewhere still in Belfast but a distance away from Guthrie’s office. Like the Titanic Quarter perhaps? If the meeting had been outside Belfast the words would have sounded out of place. Reggie spoke again.
“Did he happen to say where it was, or with whom?”
She shook her head vaguely. “He didn’t have that many clients, so it shouldn’t be that hard to find out.”
Annette moved to the edge of her chair, sensing the comment was important. “Do you mean the firm didn’t have many clients, or just your husband?”
“Dominic. He only handled the accounts of a few people personally. The very wealthy ones.”
It was on the tip of Annette’s tongue to enquire about the firm’s services when Reggie rose, breaking her flow. He reached out a hand to the young mother.
“Thank you, Mrs Guthrie, you’ve been a great help. Hopefully we won’t have to bother you again.”
With that he headed for the door, giving Annette no option but to follow. When they reached the car she climbed into the driver’s seat, barely allowing him time to fasten his seatbelt before she let rip.
“What was that?”
The Donegal man feigned ignorance. “What?”
Her face reddened with annoyance. “Don’t give me that. You cut me off just as I was about to ask what services Guthrie provided for his personal clients.”
Reggie made his already soft voice even softer and gave her a chastising look.
“Let’s just picture that conversation, Ma’am. You ask for details that can be easily obtained from the files at Guthrie’s office, which she may or may not know anyway, and to what end? If she’d known the details it wouldn’t have told us anything except that her husband talked about his work at home. And if you’d thought it might have incriminated her then we’d have been obliged to caution her beforehand, in which case she would probably have clammed up. And what if she hadn’t known anything? The discussion could have upset her even more, so what would have been gained?”
The Talion Code Page 16