The Talion Code

by Catriona King

  Whatever favour Jimmy Pearce owed Sean Flanagan must have been substantial, because no sooner was Posy Lynch seated in the interview room than her phone began to ring. They watched as she listened, her face a picture of protest and chagrin. Her second last word was “NO” and whatever was said in response made her pale and then mutter a resentful “OK” before she hung up. She turned towards the glass and yelled.

  “I know you’re there. OK, you’ve won. This time. But someday we’ll have a return match.”

  Craig didn’t doubt it. He motioned Jack to give her a pen and paper then watched as the journalist grudgingly scribbled down a name. As the sergeant went to check it and Liam phoned the details through to Davy, Craig watched Posy Lynch through the glass, knowing that he’d just added another enemy to his long list.

  ****

  The Harcourt Housing Estate. West Belfast. 1.15 p.m.

  Terry Mallon was in his favourite armchair skinning up a joint when the knock came at his front door. He ignored it and flicked at his lighter, intent on enjoying his spoils. Who’d have thought that a Friday night on the lash could have been so lucrative? Mostly his Friday nights followed a pattern: lift his dole money, pre-load with cider before he left home, and then meet his mates somewhere for a boogie and a post-boogie punch up, that’s if there was an obliging rival gang around to punch of course. If not they’d pick up some women and a carry-out and head somewhere for a night of luv. The final word sounded inside his head in Barry White’s deep bass.

  The murder had been a real piece of luck, although not for the murderee of course. He paused, wondering if there was such a word, then he placed the joint in his mouth and took a deep draw. Nope, it definitely hadn’t been lucky for the murderee, but it had for him and no mistake. He sighed as the cannabis hit his system and let his head loll back in his chair, preparing for an hour long trip. It was cut short by the door being knocked in and a six-feet-six man with a bass of his own looming over his low slung chair.

  “Wakey, wakey, son.”

  Mallon’s delay in response resulted in him being yanked to his feet by his belt. Liam was in no mood for the niceties. He was tired and he was hungry and he just knew that Craig would insist on interviewing the little scrote before any of them ever saw food.

  “Terence Mallon, I’m arresting you for withholding evidence.”

  In Mallon’s dreamlike state he thought that he’d asked “What for?” Everyone else in the room merely heard “Wafer.”

  Liam growled. “Don’t mention food to me, son. I could eat a small child right now.” He nodded to the P.C. who’d rammed in the door. “Bring that weed and anything else you find lying around and follow me down to High Street.”

  The constable considered asking Liam if he needed assistance with the prisoner but then he thought again. Liam was already trailing Mallon through the door, holding both of his wrists in one hand as he recited his rights. By the time they’d reached High Street Mallon’s single toke had worn off, and he gazed around its grey reception in alarm. Liam propped his elbow on the desk and gestured at the gaunt twenty-something.

  “Terence Mallon, in for questioning on suspicion of withholding evidence and obstructing a police investigation.” He nodded over his shoulder. “There’re some drugs coming in as well.”

  Jack nodded and began to type as Liam cuffed the stunned stoner to the desk.

  “Do me a favour, Jack. Take your time searching and cautioning him. If I don’t get something to eat soon I’ll chew off my own hand.”

  Jack didn’t look up. “Thirty minutes do you?”

  “It will if I can get the boss to shift.”

  Craig was feeling hungry himself so with little persuasion he exited High Street with his deputy and headed for Café Vaudeville. Two burgers and chips later the detectives were in a better mood and Craig remembered something that he knew would cheer Liam up.

  “The C.C.’s giving us Kyle Spence.”

  Liam’s eyes widened. “Get away! How’d he get old Barrett to agree to that?”

  Craig shrugged. “I don’t think he had much say in the matter. Rank hath its privileges.”

  Liam laughed and shook his head. “Ooh, old Spencey won’t like the real world much. It’s chilly out here.”

  “Exactly why he needs to be seconded. Too many spooks treat crime like a computer game. They need to be reminded what death really looks like.” He relented slightly. “Mind you, Kyle isn’t a bad lad. I went to Queen’s with him you know; we even shared a flat at one stage.” He shook his head, smiling. “God, he was untidy. I’m not exactly house-proud but he even drove me mad.”

  Liam decided to raise something that they’d parked after Craig’s return from suspension, a period during which he’d stayed at Katy’s flat.

  “Speaking of which, have you given any thought to moving? That place you live in is a real tip.”

  Craig couldn’t be bothered getting offended, plus Liam was actually right. His flat was like a student squat and he’d been thinking of upgrading for some time.

  “I’m thinking of renting somewhere better, and renting my place out to students until I get round to selling it. It’s close to Queen’s.”

  Liam snorted rudely. “Not even students would want to live there, not unless you redecorated.”

  Right again.

  “I’ve got a painter coming to give me a quote next week.”

  As Liam opened his mouth to say something more, Craig stood up, cutting across the predictable comments with. “Time to get back, before you give me the ‘why not move in with Katy?’ lecture.”

  Liam’s eyes grew round. “As if I would.” As they paid he changed his approach to curiosity. “But just out of interest, why don’t you? You two have been together for a while. And you’re getting on, boss. By the time you have kids you’ll be a pensioner.”

  “Like you when yours reach university.” Craig pushed open the door and they were soon back on High Street. “And when I need you to plan my love life, that’s exactly what I’ll be.”

  ****

  The Pathology Labs. Saintfield Road.

  John Winter stared down the microscope and adjusted its lens. After a good half minute’s squinting he straightened up and nodded to the bearded man by his side.

  “You’re right, Des. That’s definitely a grey hair.”

  He gestured the Head of Forensic Science to a stool and perched on another.

  “OK, let’s run through this again from the top. Dominic Guthrie’s cause of death was compression of the brain by a subdural haematoma, caused by a significant blow to the top of the head.”

  “And?”

  “And you always felt that the blow had been caused by an improvised weapon, possibly a breezeblock.”

  “Yes.”

  John gestured at the scope.

  “This piece of breezeblock was found yesterday by the C.S.I.s, on ground fifty feet from the body, and the blood on it matches Dominic Guthrie’s?”

  “Group and DNA.”

  “So it’s definitely the weapon, but why are we just finding this hair now? You’ve had the block for a day.”

  Des straightened up on his stool in what an outsider might have thought was indignation, but in reality was just to stretch his back. He and Liam shared the curse of ex-rugby players; shockingly bad backs from the scrum.

  “We found hair as soon as we found the block, but it was Guthrie’s hair. It matched visually: thick, black and curly. It also matched his DNA.” He gestured towards the new finding. “Does that hair look thick and black to you?”

  John shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  “So that means it’s not Guthrie’s. We’ll check the DNA of course but I’m fairly sure. The other thing is that Guthrie’s hair was found on the surface of the block, not in it, and that hair was firmly wedged in a crack in the stone.”

  “Which means it might be nothing to do with our crime and could have entered when the block was formed.”

  “It could, or it
could be the killer’s.” Des shrugged. “Of course to know that we’d need the killer’s hair to compare it with.”

  “Hmm…”

  “Is that hmm, I agree, or hmm, I’ve just thought of something?”

  John slipped down from his stool. “Both. It’s also, hmm, we’d better find out what we can about this hair before we raise Marc’s hopes. But we’d also better tell him that we’ve confirmed the murder weapon before he finds out we have it and shoots us both.”

  Chapter Six

  Craig stared down at Terence Mallon, taking in his sharp, thin face and spikey coal-black hair, and trying very hard not to dislike him just because of his first name. All his life he’d had trouble with guys called Terry; the only Terry he’d ever liked had been the radio host, Terry Wogan.

  It had started in primary school with Terence Morgan, a pint sized Tyson who’d thought that the quickest way to get somewhere was to punch anyone in his path. Trips to the Plasticine table had taken on a genuine threat. Then there’d been Terry Smyth, who’d plagued him at school and university. If he hadn’t known better he’d have sworn Smyth had deliberately done law at the same Uni he had, just so he could continue to make his life hell. Not that it had had the same impact at twenty as it’d had when he was twelve, but he could still recall the pain of being yanked to his feet by his hair when Smyth was five-six and he’d only been five-two. Thankfully nature had corrected the height imbalance at sixteen and after that Smyth had had to use psychological warfare instead of physical, psyching him out on every sports field they’d ever encountered each other upon. He’d finally asked him what his problem was on the day they’d graduated, to be shocked by the belligerence of Smyth’s reply.

  “You stole Maria Leonard from me. You and your Latin lover looks.” They’d been eleven at the time!

  Craig thought back to the young lady in question, remembering her pink and white skin and softly curled strawberry blonde hair. He had no regrets. One kiss from Maria Leonard at eleven had been worth the ten years of grief that had followed in its wake.

  His next Terence had almost proved his nemesis and if he had his way he would prove it yet. D.C.S. Terry Harrison, the man who was determined to get him kicked off the job. Craig continued to stare at the prisoner, reminding himself that Terry Mallon wasn’t responsible for his name; that honour lay with his parents, and he couldn’t let his prejudice against a moniker jeopardise an interview.

  As Craig stared at Mallon and remembered, Liam stared at his boss, wondering what he was thinking about and rolling his eyes. Finally he scraped back the interview room seat, sitting down noisily, hoping that the noise would break Craig’s trance. The loud click of the tape going on succeeded where the earlier noise had failed and Craig took a seat opposite the journalistic source, reciting the reason why Mallon was there.

  “Mr Mallon, you’ve been found in possession of a Class B substance.”

  Even Mallon in his dozy state knew that something was amiss.

  “A spliff? You arrested me for that!”

  Liam nodded gravely, sniffing at Mallon’s unwashed state. Unfortunately there were no windows in the room.

  “It’s the thin end of the wedge, son, thin end of the wedge. For all we know you could be dealing.”

  The worn state of Mallon’s clothes said they hardly dealing with Pablo Escobar, but it would do to hold him on for now. The indignant stoner lurched forward abruptly, giving Liam a whiff of patchouli mixed with body odour that almost brought his lunch back up. Craig didn’t move, just stared at his latest Terence with contempt. The reasons for it formed a long list. Mallon was a doped-up waste of space who’d sold his story to the press instead of telling the police, plus, they’d seen his rap sheet and he’d been committing minor offences for ten years, since he was seventeen.

  “You approached The Belfast Mirror newspaper with a story, Mr Mallon.”

  It was a statement. Mallon shrugged.

  “So what if I did? It’s a free country.”

  Craig leaned forward, taking his olfactory life in his hands.

  “It’s also failure to report a crime, withholding evidence and possible obstruction of justice.”

  Mallon’s pasty skin paled further and he slumped back in his chair. There was a moment’s silence while Craig held his position and the detectives watched the dance of obfuscation do its warm up on Mallon’s face. As Liam counted three the performance started and for ten seconds it followed a well-trodden path.

  “I didn’t know. I thought someone else would find the body.” Ending with the whined “I needed the money ’cos I’ve been sick.” Drug poisoning no doubt.

  Craig didn’t blink, instead he fixed his eyes firmly on Mallon’s, slowing their wild swivelling to a leaden sweep and then to stillness as they stared each other out. Liam said nothing. Instead he watched as Mallon’s over-large pupils constricted in the well-lit room and small drops of moisture sprang up on his half-shaved upper lip. He knew what Craig’s stillness meant. He thought that there was more to this than a half-stoned ne’er do well stumbling on a murder on a Friday night.

  But what? Not in his wildest dreams did Mallon fit the profile of a murderer; he’d stopped thinking that the moment they’d knocked down his flimsy front door. So if not the murderer he must have been a witness; it was what he was protesting now and what Posy Lynch’s capitalised headline had tannoyed. So what more was Craig hoping to gain by staring? Liam got his answer seconds later when Terry Mallon’s thin frame folded like origami and he restarted his whine.

  “He said it’d be OK. He said all I had to do was tell the papers.”

  Craig wanted to punch the air but instead he asked in a steady voice “Who said?”

  Mallon looked like he was going to cry and it made Liam want to slap him, but sadly he’d lost that option when he’d joined the job. The stoner did cry a moment later, giving his next answer a curiously underwater sound.

  “The man. He just walked up to me, like. At the centre. I was outside having a quick toke.”

  Craig’s voice became soothing, as if he was talking to a skittish animal that was about to run away.

  “What day was this?”

  “Friday.”

  “Time?”

  “’Bout ten at night.”

  “And the centre. Do you mean the Odyssey Complex, by any chance?”

  Mallon wiped away his tears with the back of a nicotine-stained hand. “Aye. He came up to me outside the front door.”

  He gave a loud sniff and Liam thought about giving him a handkerchief, but he only had the starched one that Danni had given him that morning and he was damned if he’d waste good Irish Linen on a scrote like that. Craig was still staring, every muscle tensed. He was afraid to move in case it broke the spell.

  “What did this man look like?”

  Mallon shook his head. “Just a bloke. Nothing special.”

  “Dark or fair hair?”

  “Couldn’t see. He was wearing a beanie.”

  “Eye colour?”

  “He had glasses.”

  Craig bit back an expletive. “Tall or short? Young or old?”

  Mallon shrugged and gestured at Liam. “Tall, but not as tall as the Incredible Hulk here. Bit older than me, but not old like that sergeant out the front.”

  They pictured Jack choking in the viewing room, but at least it ruled out Richard Jamison. He was almost as old as Jack. Thankfully the man being tall fitted with their theory of the crime.

  “Good. You said he wore glasses. What sort? Did he have facial hair? Can you remember anything unusual about his voice?”

  As soon as Craig had asked he wondered why he’d bothered. All three things were quick fakes for anyone wishing to disguise themselves. As Mallon nodded his heart sank.

  “Aye. Both black. Black beard and moustache and thick black glasses; like that Harry Hill bloke on TV. He just sounded normal. Belfast somewhere.”

  The facial hair and glasses would both be fake. The accent as well pos
sibly. They would do a sketch but…

  Craig sighed and carried on. “What did he say to you? His exact words.”

  Mallon gave his first smile since they’d lifted him. “Do you want to make some serious money? Well, I said how much, didn’t I?”

  Liam cut in. “And? How much was it then?”

  Mallon’s tears dried instantly and his eyes grew wide. “Two grand. Two whole grand. I nearly bit his hand off.”

  Craig continued. “Without asking what you had to do for it?”

  Mallon shrugged. “I didn’t care. I’d have sold him my mum for that.”

  They knew that it was true and Craig added another Terence to his list.

  “But he didn’t want your mother, did he?”

  Mallon laughed caustically. “Even better. He just wanted me to go to the papers and say I’d seen something. That was it.”

  Craig turned to Liam as realisation dawned. Mallon hadn’t witnessed the murder at all. The confidential source that Posy Lynch had been prepared to sit in custody to protect hadn’t seen a bloody thing. Mallon was talking freely now, looking pleased with himself.

  “He gave me two then the paper gave me another five. I’ve enough to keep me in weed for the year.”

  If the man had won the lottery he would have spent it all on drugs. So much for money guaranteeing a better life.

  Craig shook his head, lost for words, so Liam took up the baton.

  “OK, so this man paid you to tell a story to the papers, but you’d actually seen nothing of the murder.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you didn’t think that was a little odd?”

  Mallon looked confused for a moment, but his recovery was swift. “Well, it was like one of those punked things, wasn’t it? Like what you see on TV? Then the paper works out it’s been punked and it’s all a big laugh.”

  Thick as well as stoned; Liam wondered which had come first. He laughed in disbelief.

  “You really think that The Mirror’s going to laugh about this, son? They’re going to take you to court to get their money back and probably sue the ass off you as well! And didn’t you think a bloke asking you to lie about a murder was slightly suspicious?”