Talion

by Pete Brassett

‘Well, don’t stand there gawping,’ said Cathy, patting the cushion beside her, ‘I’ve not got a contagious disease, and I don’t bite.’

  Duncan tossed his coat on a dining chair, handed her a glass, and sat beside her.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, glancing around, ‘hey, it’s alright, this. In fact, it’s probably better than my flat.’

  ‘Aye, it’s okay,’ said Cathy, ‘I mean, it does what is says on the tin, but to be honest, as I’m here with Ranulph Fiennes, it’s just somewhere to sleep at night and shower in the morning.’

  ‘Keeps you busy, does he?’ said Duncan. ‘Young Cam?’

  ‘And then some. We’re out from dawn till dusk; walking, foraging, climbing trees, peeking under rocks.’

  ‘Must be exhausting.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Cathy, smiling as she sipped the wine. ‘Just ten minutes to myself is pure heaven. Peace and quiet is not a commodity I’m blessed with, why, even at work I have to listen to folk havering about who did what, to whom.’

  ‘And what is work?’ said Duncan as he reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses.

  ‘Depends what day of the week it is.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Monday to Friday is part-time at the Nestlé factory…’

  ‘Making chocolate?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Cathy, ‘and no, I don’t eat it – I can’t stand the smell. Saturday is Asda, which is good because I get a staff discount, and Sundays is The Anchor, which is even better because me and Cam get a free roast supper.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Duncan, ‘it’s not a day off you deserve, it’s a medal, you know that?’

  ‘Och, you get used to it. I’m not saying it’s easy, mind, it’s still a struggle, especially when it comes to things like holidays.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘I used to have a great job. I loved it, had a decent wage, too, but that was before Cam came along and…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cathy abruptly, ‘it’s not important.’

  ‘Do you mean… Cam’s father?’

  ‘It’s history. He buggered off not long after Cam was born. Sold the house behind my back and left me to start again.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Duncan. ‘Jesus, some people. Sorry, I don’t mean to pry but does he not stay in touch? I mean, to help out with Cam?’

  ‘Dream on,’ said Cathy. ‘That good-for-nothing even wheedled his way out of child support. He claimed insolvency. As if. And even though he got all that cash from the house, do you know what he sent Cam for his birthday? Five quid. In a blank card. The arse didn’t even sign it.’

  ‘Hold on, now, that’s not on,’ said Duncan. ‘So, you didn’t get a penny from the house? Surely…’

  ‘I told you; insolvency. Eleven years on and I’m still trying. Now, let’s change the subject, this is too depressing and I’m supposed to be enjoying myself.’

  ‘Right enough. So, tell me, what did you do before? I mean, what was this great job you had?’

  ‘Micro-biologist.’

  Duncan, looking more than a little astonished, stared at Cathy, raised his glass, and took another large sip of wine without averting his eyes.

  ‘Are you joking me?’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Cathy with a mischievous wink. ‘I’m a veterinarian nurse. Well, I was when we lived up in Heathfield.’

  ‘A vet? That explains everything, then,’ said Duncan, laughing.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Where Cam gets it from. I mean, his love of nature and your… well, your disposition, you’ve not a bad word to say about anybody. No wonder you’re good with animals. If you ask me, Cam’s dad was a fool to let you go.’

  ‘Charmer.’

  ‘So, how about now?’ said Duncan. ‘Where’s home these days?’

  ‘Girvan,’ said Cathy, rolling her eyes.

  ‘I’ve never been. What’s it like?’

  ‘Cheap. Very cheap.’

  ‘Listen, Cathy,’ said Duncan as he drained his glass, ‘have you had yourself some supper? Only, it was a bit of a rush to get over here and I could do with a…’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Not yet.’

  ‘Is there anywhere to eat round here? I mean, apart from the pub? It’s not exactly popular, is it?’

  ‘There’s a chippy nearby, and there’s a Burger King, too.’

  ‘Right,’ said Duncan, as he stood, ‘grab your coat, my treat. I think we’ll need another bottle too.’

  * * *

  Should the opportunity to delegate present itself, then there were certain domestic chores that West was more than happy to relinquish responsibility for; cleaning the bathroom being one, emptying the bins, another, whilst cooking – particularly if it involved washing-up more than one plate and a single fork – topped the list by a country mile.

  Hiding behind the laptop with a glass of red in hand, she tapped lethargically at the keyboard while Munro, helping himself to another Balvenie, checked the status of the oven-chips before tossing a couple of thick-cut sirloins into the pan.

  ‘You’re awful quiet, Charlie,’ he said as the steaks hissed and spluttered, ‘are you reading The Daily Mail or looking-up the trade-in price of a Figaro?’

  ‘Very funny,’ said West. ‘Actually, I’m looking for Alex Tamarin.’

  ‘A home address?’

  ‘Yeah, Dougal only had his phone with him, so I thought I’d give it another go.’

  ‘And have you found anything?’

  ‘Not a sausage,’ said West. ‘And with a name like Tamarin, you’d have thought it’d be easy.’

  Munro seared the steaks and turned to face West.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said as he savoured the Balvenie, ‘erring on the side of optimism, let’s assume this firm of financial advisors does actually belong to Tamarin.’

  ‘Okay,’ said West.

  ‘But he’s trading under the name of Tamar.’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  West gazed blankly at a grinning Munro before closing her eyes and allowing her head to fall forward.

  ‘God, you’re so annoying!’ she said as she slapped the keys with renewed vigour. ‘How come you always get there before me.’

  ‘Well?’ said Munro. ‘Dinnae keep me hanging, lassie.’

  ‘One. There’s only one Tamar, so it has to be him. Springside. Where’s Springside?’

  ‘I have no idea, but that’s why God gave you Google maps.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said West, ‘here we go. It’s on the outskirts of Kilmarnock. You know what? If this isn’t him, I’ll flipping well…’

  ‘Turn vegetarian?’

  ‘…cry.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Same as before,’ said West, ‘but if he’s not in his office, we’ll head over to this place in Springside and see if we can get him there. Oh, hold on, it’s our pet, Dougal. Dougal, two words: speaker, go.’

  ‘Miss, sorry it’s late, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  ‘No, it’s alright,’ said West, ‘Jimbo’s cooking so we won’t eat until the steaks are burnt to a cinder, be a while yet.’

  ‘Dougal,’ said Munro as he joined West at the table, ‘if I find out you’re still in the office, I will personally…’

  ‘No, no, boss. I’m at home. With a crispy duck. And some pancakes. Promise.’

  ‘Okay, well, in that case, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m looking at Barbary’s computer…’

  ‘Would you not find a film more entertaining?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Dougal, ‘I’m going through the accounts, and here’s the thing: all the invoices from the builders merchants Barbary uses for supplies, you know, paving, sand, cement, all that stuff, they’re from an outfit called “J Crosby and Son”.’

  ‘So?’ said West. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

  ‘Aye, it should. But it doesn’t. They don’t exist. The postcode is the B744 towards Annbank, which is n
othing but fields.’

  ‘Maybe Annette just entered it wrong?’

  ‘Well, if she did,’ said Dougal, ‘she’s done the same with the name. There’s no merchants called Crosby. Anywhere.’

  ‘Okay, so they’re submitting false invoices,’ said West, ‘nothing new about that, just makes your profits look smaller, so you pay less tax.’

  ‘No, that’s not it,’ said Dougal. ‘They’re not just fake invoices. See, Barbary doesn’t have any other suppliers listed, at all. So, I’m wondering, who are they buying their materials from, and why are they not entering them in the books, and why are they paying so much for them?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said West. ‘You’ll have to help me out here, Dougal, I haven’t got the faintest idea what the going rate for a pile of bricks is.’

  ‘Put it this way, if I was paying this amount to pave my drive, I’d expect to be using gold bars.’

  ‘Any idea how long this has been going on?’

  ‘From what I can tell,’ said Dougal, ‘a couple of years, at least. There’s one more thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘These invoices have been going in and getting paid at quite a rate, I mean, they could’ve built Edinburgh Castle by now.’

  West, frowning intensely, sought to find a reason for the unconventional accounting in the bottom of her glass before waving the empty at Munro and requesting a refill.

  ‘You’re not flummoxed by this, are you Dougal?’ he said, smiling as he topped up the glass.

  ‘Just a wee bit, boss. Aye.’

  ‘And you, Charlie? Can you not fathom this age-old scam, either?’

  ‘I never was any good at maths,’ said West. ‘It helps if you have an interest in the subject.’

  ‘Okay, see here,’ said Munro, ‘are you familiar with the phrase hooky? Or bent, or knockoff?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jimbo,’ said West, ‘give us some credit, at least.’

  ‘Here’s how it works,’ said Munro. ‘Annette pays cash for the materials they actually use which, if I’m not mistaken, are probably stolen, right? So, she needs to have a supplier on the books to make everything look legit, hence the fictitious Crosby and Son.’

  ‘Yeah, but why so many invoices?’ said West. ‘And why such large amounts?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Munro. ‘She enters the invoices from Crosby and Son, then settles them out of the Barbary account.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Dougal. ‘So, what you’re saying is, she’s actually syphoning money out of the business?’

  ‘Hallelujah!’

  ‘But where’s it going? I mean, who’s she paying?’

  Munro knocked back his whisky and poured himself another.

  ‘Does Annette do her banking on-line, Dougal?’ he said.

  ‘She does.’

  ‘And can you access the account?’

  ‘Aye, she was logged-in when you took the computer and it’s not been turned off. But I can’t do any transactions, or anything like that.’

  ‘You dinnae have to, laddie,’ said Munro. ‘Can you see this Crosby chap listed there?’

  ‘I can, boss. Right here.’

  ‘Good, so you have a sort code, and an account number, then.’

  Munro winked at West and raised his glass during the short, but poignant, pause.

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Dougal excitedly. ‘I’ll let you know who it is, just as soon as I find out.’

  Munro dished up the steaks and heaped a mountain of chips onto each plate as West poured him a large glass of red.

  ‘I’ve just realised why Annette was cacking herself when we took their laptop,’ she said.

  ‘Because if her husband finds out what she’s been up to, her life wouldnae be worth living?’

  ‘Exactly. Oh, unless they were in it together?’

  ‘No, no, that doesnae make sense,’ said Munro as he shovelled a forkful of chips into his mouth. ‘If that were the case, they’d simply be robbing themselves. How’s your steak?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said West. ‘Next time, do me two and I can use them as flip-flops. Oh, now what?’

  West leaned to one side and glanced at her phone.

  ‘Panic over,’ she said, ‘nothing important.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘Nah, it’s McLeod.’

  ‘McLeod?’

  ‘Yeah, the pathologist who looked after Hamlyn.’

  ‘And that’s not business?’

  ‘Nope,’ said West. ‘He’s asked me out for a drink.’

  ‘Good for you, Charlie. It’s about time you had some male company. I mean… non-platonic, male company. Although, I have to say, you appear to be making a habit of attracting folk who carve up cadavers for a living.’

  ‘I know. Doesn’t say much for me, does it?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Munro. ‘You’re full of life, lassie. Most of the time.’

  ‘Thanks for that. I think I’ve gone off him, anyway. He’s got a beard. I’ve never liked beards. That’s one of the reasons I was glad to get out of Shoreditch.’

  * * *

  West, on the verge of flinging her phone from the balcony into the depths of the Clyde, threw down her cutlery as it interrupted her evening for a third time.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she said, ‘What the hell… oh, it’s Dougal. Again. Dougal, what’s up? Did you forget the hoisin sauce?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘It’s that bank account, miss,’ said Dougal, ‘you know, the one Annette has down as being Crosby and Son?’

  ‘What about it?’ said Munro with a knowing smile.

  ‘It belongs to Tamar Associates. It’s their business account.’

  Chapter 15

  Whilst Munro preferred to rise with the sun and cogitate on the day ahead, and West preferred to lie-in and ruminate over the night before, Dougal preferred to spend the early hours in a darkened room with nothing but the warm glow of his computer and the gentle whirr of a printer for company.

  Tucking into a bag of leftover prawn crackers, he sat contentedly printing off spreadsheets from Barbary’s computer when Duncan, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, breezed unexpectedly through the door.

  ‘Will I pull the blinds?’ he said, grinning. ‘It’s awful dark in here.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Dougal, astounded. ‘Either your watch is fast or you’ve not had any sleep.’

  ‘There’s nothing like a wee threat from Westie to get you out of bed, I can tell you.’

  ‘Aye, look, about that. Just in case you’re thinking I landed you in it, I want you to know, I didn’t say a word.’

  ‘Relax, pal,’ said Duncan as he tousled his unruly hair. ‘I’m not blaming you for anything, I blame myself.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It’s my own fault. I should’ve taken a leaf out of your book and acted more… responsibly. I was out of order, leaving you to do all the work, so, for that, I apologise.’

  ‘Apologise?’ said Dougal. ‘I don’t believe it, what happened last night? Did you find God?’

  ‘Not quite, but if I tell you what did happen, I’ll probably get crucified. Now, give me a minute to sort myself out, and I’ll stick the kettle on.’

  * * *

  Duncan’s jacket had barely hit the back of the chair when a bleary-eyed West, followed by Munro, shuffled through the door, clocked Duncan, and checked her watch.

  ‘Four minutes to seven,’ she said. ‘I hope she was worth it.’

  ‘Oh, aye, miss. Look, apologies for taking-off like that, it was selfish and…’

  ‘We’re a team,’ said West bluntly. ‘We pull together, so next time, unless your next of kin is bleeding profusely from multiple stab wounds, you check before you go. Got that?’

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘Right. Lecture over. So, update. Dougal, I found a residential address for Tamarin on the electoral register, actually it’s Tamar again, so let’s just hope they’re one and the same. If he’s not in
the office, then that’s where we’ll go. It’s a place called Springside.’

  ‘Right you are, miss.’

  ‘Duncan, you and Jimbo; car park at the station. Oh, and after that, I need you to nip up to that caravan park by Greenan Castle, we still haven’t got the footage from their…’

  ‘Och, are you joking me?’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve just come…’

  ‘What?’ said West.

  ‘Nothing. You’re alright.’

  ‘You were about to say, you’ve just come from there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said Dougal gleefully. ‘Now I know where you went. You were with that Cathy Brodie, weren’t you?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Munro. ‘Cathy Brodie? Is she not the lady who found Hamlyn on the beach?’

  ‘Aye, chief,’ said Duncan guiltily. ‘She is.’

  ‘By Jiminy, what kind of an idiot are you?’

  ‘It was just…’

  ‘It was just about the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, laddie! She’s a witness! Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Chief.’

  ‘It means we cannae call on her to testify! Any evidence she gives will be not be accepted by the court on the grounds that she may have been unduly influenced, or coerced, into saying something other than the truth. And all because of your shenanigans.’

  ‘But chief, honestly, we didn’t even mention Hamlyn, we just…’

  ‘I despair,’ said Munro. ‘Really, I do. God in heaven, have you no common sense? You can do what you like once the case is closed, but now? No, no, this is irresponsible in the extreme. Get your car. I’ll meet you out front, and count your blessings it’s not me heading up this investigation or you’d be on a suspension by now.’

  Munro, glowering, turned to West.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said as Duncan bolted from the room. ‘I’ll think about it. But right now, we need him, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘I do not, lassie,’ said Munro as a chipper DCI Elliot blustered through the door. ‘I do not like it, at all.’

  ‘Charlie, James, Dougal! And how are we, this fine morning?’

  ‘What do you want?’ said Munro, growling.

  ‘Och, I just thought I’d ask how the…’

  ‘Paperwork, George? How’s the paperwork?’

  Elliot, sensing it was not a good time to use the phrase “slipped my mind”, grimaced at West, made his excuses, and left.