The Coercion Key

by Catriona King

  He turned back to his page just as Craig spoke again. “And Linton and Diana Rogan?”

  This time Davy answered without looking up. “None.”

  Nicky could hear the exasperated tone in Davy’s voice half-way across the floor. She jumped to her feet, marched over to his horseshoe of computers and grabbed him by the ear.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “It was for sounding like you were bored when the Superintendent asked you questions. Show some respect.”

  Craig watched Nicky, thinking that her eleven-year-old son, Jonny, would grow up with impeccable manners or his mother would die trying. A small blush lit Davy’s cheeks then spread upwards to the roots of his hair. He wriggled free and glanced at Craig apologetically.

  “S…Sorry, chief. I didn’t mean to be rude, It’s just…”He frowned again and gestured at the page of numbers in front of him. “I’m getting annoyed with myself because I can’t crack this code.”

  Craig grabbed a chair and sat down, grinning at Nicky. “I don’t suppose…”

  “I’ll bring a coffee over.”

  She cast a warning look at Davy and headed for the percolator. Craig extended his hand and Davy handed him the troublesome page. It held the four sets of numbers they’d gathered from the keys. Davy sighed.

  “I’ve had The Met’s code team w…working on them as well. We’ve tried every s…sequence we can think of separately and with the numbers together, and none of them fit. The computer’s having no joy either. I hate to admit defeat but…”

  Craig squinted at the paper, trying to see the individual numbers as cues that had prompted their victims to suicide. Each victim must have understood their number’s significance, and they must have been scared stupid or they would never have killed themselves. The numbers had to hold some sort of message, how else would they have known what was expected of them and why else would they have done it?

  Were they dates? If they were they weren’t dates that looked anything like the modern calendar. Was that in itself a clue?

  “Davy, have you run these through any other possible calendars?”

  Nicky approached with a tray of fresh coffees and Craig took one gratefully.

  “You mean like the Babylonian calendar or the ancient S…Scandinavian one?”

  Craig nodded, not knowing the differences but quite certain that Davy did. “Any that you can think of.”

  Davy nodded, setting his hair flying. He grabbed an elastic band from the desk and tied it back roughly, still talking. “I checked all that a couple of days ago. Calendars, s…substitution codes, latitude and longitudes, you name it. Nothing fits. That’s w…why I’m getting annoyed.”

  Craig sipped his coffee for a moment then thought out loud. “What if the numbers mean nothing? They’re just random sequences left there to confuse anyone who looked? ”

  Davy shook his head.

  “They have to mean s…something or why else w…would they have killed themselves? If all that was on the memory stick was the file holding the s…suicide note they were expected to copy and the numbers, then the numbers must have been w…what prompted their s…suicides. But would you kill yourself because of some numbers? ’Cos I know I wouldn’t. Not unless I understood w…what they meant.”

  Nicky’s husky voice cut across the floor. “What if something else was on the sticks as well?”

  Craig beckoned her across. “Keep going, Nicky.”

  She perched on the edge of Davy’s desk. “Well, what if there was something written on each USB that was personal to the recipient? Something that told them exactly why they were being targeted and what would happen if they didn’t kill themselves. And then it wiped itself, leaving no trace, like in spy movies?”

  Craig turned quickly to Davy. “Is that possible, Davy? Could there have been another file on each of the USBs, with a virus implanted to destroy the file once it had been read?”

  Davy’s mouth dropped open. “God, I’m so s…stupid. Of course.” He leapt up and hugged Nicky then turned and hammered furiously at his keyboard. After several seconds of typing Craig and Nicky realised that Davy had left their world and probably wouldn’t return to it for hours, so they wandered back to Nicky’s desk.

  “What made you think of that, Nicky?”

  Nicky screwed up her small face in a way he could imagine her doing when she was a child.

  “When we were kids we used to write secret messages to each other on paper using lemon juice. Pretending we were spies. The words only showed up if you held the paper over the heat. So I thought what if they’d done the same in reverse? Using some sort of computer virus to make the words disappear after they’d been read.”

  Craig scratched his head. If it was true then it meant that the numbers alone weren’t the reason for the suicides, but they still meant something. He was about to ask Davy a question when Jake came bounding through the double-doors with a grin on his face.

  Nicky asked the question first. “I thought you were in Donegal?”

  Jake walked over to join them, casting a questioning look at the flurry of activity at Davy’s desk.

  “It turns out Judge Standish had gone to Enniskillen instead. He has a boat down there.”

  Craig glanced at the clock and gave Jake a wry look, knowing that he must burned rubber all the way there and back.

  “You must have driven like a bat out of hell.”

  Jake blushed, hoping that he hadn’t been caught by any speed cameras. That would take some explaining.

  “Well, you’re here now. Get some lunch and then ask the providers to unlock the chat-room names, please. You’ll have to start that on your own. Davy’s busy with other things just now. He might have made a break-through on the USBs.”

  Craig turned towards his office and beckoned Nicky to follow, leaving Jake feeling jealous of Davy yet again. Once inside the high-windowed room Craig motioned Nicky to take a seat.

  “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, sir. I don’t know how you drink so much of the stuff. It makes my jaw ache.”

  Craig sat down, facing her across the desk. “That was a good catch on the USB.”

  Nicky grinned, feeling pleased with herself. “Thanks. I get these flashes of brilliance sometimes.”

  “More often than half of us.”

  Craig tapped the outside of his mug thoughtfully and Nicky knew he was working up to something.

  “What’s on your mind? Something about the team?”

  He smiled slowly and said nothing, encouraging her to speculate.

  “OK. Let me see. It’s not Liam or Annette and it’s not Davy, apart from the fact that he’s a cheeky wee pup these days.” She grinned. “Do you remember how shy he was when he first joined us? I thought he couldn’t speak for weeks, because he never said a word.”

  Craig smiled like a proud parent. “Our little boy’s growing up.”

  They laughed together for a moment and then Craig’s smiled dropped. Nicky nodded.

  “It’s Jake, isn’t it? You think he’s a risk taker.”

  Craig started to nod but stopped halfway. “Yes and no. Calculated risks are part of the job. We’d get nowhere without them.” He stared into space, remembering. “I did things at The Met that would curl your hair.”

  “You’d have saved me a fortune on hairdressers then.”

  He sighed heavily. “It’s not sensible, calculated risks that I mind. It’s bloody reckless ones.”

  “Like doing one hundred miles per hour down the A4 just so he could get back and keep up.”

  “Yes. Like that. I saw his face when I said he was going to Donegal. He wasn’t happy.”

  She smiled knowingly. “You sent him deliberately. We could easily have got local uniform to get the warrants signed.”

  “I needed to see if what I suspected about him was right.” He sighed. “He’s overly ambitious, Nick and he’s started to compete with everyone on the team, especially Davy and Annette.”

  “He probably th
inks the rest of you are too high to reach.”

  Craig tutted and shook his head. “Davy could flatten him intellectually, except that he’s too nice to ever show it, and Annette’s far more experienced in life.”

  Nicky smiled. “Young bucks, fighting for position. It’s always been the same, sir. If you harness it, it might be useful.”

  “Not if it causes friction or Jake gets someone killed in the process, it won’t.”

  ***

  Liam shook tomato sauce onto his chips then put more inside his bacon roll and took a huge bite. Annette stared at the red stain spreading across his chin and pushed a napkin into his face before the sauce dropped onto his shirt.

  “Here, what…?”

  Liam pulled the napkin away and saw the red smudge, adding two and two together. “Oh, aye. Thanks. I’d have had to go home and change.”

  “I was thinking of Danni trying to get that stain off a white shirt, not you.”

  Liam grinned. “Ah, now. You love me really.”

  Annette stifled a smile and they ate lunch in silence for a moment. When they reached the coffee stage she started to summarise. “OK, we’ve done Conor Rogan again. We can do Warner’s wife and girlfriend now and get back in time for the briefing. What did you make of Rogan saying it never even occurred to him to tell us about his step-son?”

  Liam sniffed and gazed into space. “I think it’s fair enough actually. If he’s known the boy since he was a tiddler he probably thinks of him as his biological son. And why would you tell some nosey copper something that they hadn’t specifically asked? It probably never occurred to him to say ‘oh, by the way, the eight-year-old boy’s not mine. The woman I loved, who just killed herself, shagged someone else before we met and he’s my son’s real father’.”

  Annette’s eyes widened in shock.

  “You see, you agree. You wouldn’t have told us either, would you?”

  “I’m not shocked at that. I’m shocked because you’ve just yelled the word ‘shagged’ across a small café!”

  Liam scanned the surprised faces of the other diners and saw her point.

  “Aye, well. Anyway, you get my gist.”

  Annette nodded. “I think you’re right. He thinks of the boy as his child so it didn’t occur to him to tell us. I just wonder what Rogan’s legal rights are now that the boy’s mother is dead. Unless he adopted him he’s not the boy’s legal father, Warner is.”

  Liam guffawed then horrified the others diners again with his next comment. “He’s dead too so it all works out well.”

  Annette winced and tried hard not to laugh.

  “OK. We’re going to see Warner’s wife next, so for God’s sake try to be tactful, Liam. Don’t mention the boy and please don’t mention the mistress.”

  “She already knows about the mistress and she doesn’t give a monkey’s. Probably glad of the chance of a bit of sleep; Warner sounded like he was permanently on heat. Do we have a name for the mistress yet?”

  “Isabella McDonald.”

  “Let me guess. She’s in her twenties or thirties and she worked for Warner in some job.”

  Annette frowned at the printout in her hand, wondering how he knew. “Did you get a copy of this as well?”

  Liam tapped his nose like a conspirator. “Nope. It’s logic, that’s all. First, she’d have to have worked with him, because men are lazy buggers and if they’re going to be unfaithful it’s usually with someone handy. Doctors and nurses, bosses and secretaries…”

  He paused for a moment and Annette knew that he was trying to imagine Craig and Nicky together. They shook their heads simultaneously. “Nope… Anyway second, he was a broker, so she was probably either his secretary or a junior broker, hence the age range. Simple deduction.”

  “Q.E.D.”

  “What?”

  “Quod Erat Demonstrandum. It’s Latin. It stands for ‘quite easily done’ as well.”

  Liam screwed up his face, remembering his Latin from when he’d been an altar boy. He’d had enough of it then.

  “Aye, whatever.”

  They rose and exited quickly, leaving a trail of napkins, sauce and shocked diners in their wake. An hour later they’d re-interviewed Erica Warner and confirmed yet again that there were no tears being shed for her hubby. She knew nothing more than she’d told Liam on his last visit. Her husband had a second family living twenty miles away and the latest in a long line of mistresses ensconced in his Belfast Pied à Terre. She knew that Diana Rogan had held the job of mistress at one time but she’d heard nothing about an eight-year-old son, although her bored expression when Annette mentioned the boy said that she wasn’t even slightly surprised.

  After ten minutes they left and started walking back to the car. Annette sighed heavily as they reached it. “You realise we’ll have to interview the second wife in Antrim as well?”

  Liam grinned. “Is she the second wife or the second mistress? Here, if you’re looking for people who wanted Warner dead I imagine he had more than most, and all of them female.”

  He guffawed loudly and Annette was grateful that this time there was no-one around to offend. Something occurred to her.

  “Has anyone met up with Victoria Linton’s boyfriend, Julian Mooney yet?”

  Liam thought for a moment then shook his head. “Good thinking, Batman. I wonder if he’s back from the South yet. I know Jake talked to her parents.” He paused and Annette wondered what was coming next. “What do you make of him?”

  “Who? Batman or Jake?”

  Liam squinted at her warningly.

  “You want to know what I think of Jake? Why?”

  Liam sighed exaggeratedly. “Because I just do. You’re good at all that people stuff.”

  Annette preened herself for a moment then hurried on as his squint deepened.

  “He’s nice but very ambitious.”

  “Aye, too ambitious.”

  “If you already thought that then why ask me?”

  “I wanted to see if it was just a man’s view. He’s a good lad and he was excellent on the Carragher case, but he’s jockeying for position all the time and it’s starting to wear me out. I’m thinking of having a word.”

  Annette shook her head firmly. “Don’t you dare, Liam Cullen. That’s the Super’s place, not yours. Speak to the boss and let him deal with it.”

  Liam screwed up his face. He didn’t like giving people problems to deal with when he could sort them out himself. Annette glared at him as he checked under the car for booby-traps before they climbed in.

  “Liam, leave Jake alone.”

  Liam said nothing, merely turned over the engine and Annette knew that she’d better speak to Craig before Liam stirred up a hornet’s nest in the team.

  Chapter Fourteen

  3 p.m.

  It didn’t take long for Adrian Bell to leave his office. He scurried towards Bridge Street making for where his car was parked. Jenna didn’t bother to follow. Why would she when she already knew where he was rushing to? Adrian Bell was going home. It was where everyone ran when they were frightened or alone, as if the sound of a Yale locking or a bolt being pulled across could ward off all the dangers of the world. Jenna wished that had been true for her, but the only comfort she’d ever got was from playing her game.

  She hadn’t touched her computer today, certain that by now Craig’s men would be in the on-line fora, squeezing past the screen names to the real people behind. They’d find her eventually, but it would take them longer than the time they had left. Bell was the last one on her list then she was out of here and on to a better life across the pond.

  Jenna was already at Adrian Bell’s home when he arrived, sitting across the street watching and waiting until his family left. It was what they all did, got rid of their loved ones, once they’d read the USB’s contents and realised that there was nowhere else to run.

  She wondered idly how Bell would end it. So far she’d had hanging, drowning, pills and gas. A gunshot would be nice, or perhap
s poison, although that was almost the same as pills. Jenna shrugged, uncaring. She didn’t mind how they shuffled off their mortal coil, just as long as they all did. Each day they kept on breathing made a mockery of everything that she’d been through.

  ***

  Isabella McDonald made Liam smile. He’d smiled when she’d opened the front door at Nelson Warner’s luxurious apartment, and he’d smiled as they followed her down the carpeted hallway into the lounge. In fact he was smiling so much that Annette had to elbow him in the side before it turned into a leer.

  Annette could see what he was smiling at. McDonald looked like a blow-up doll. They’d interviewed several mistresses over the years and they’d ranged from tall, dark and elegant solicitors through the pretty, to the dowdy and downright shy, but none so far had matched the comic-book image of the brassy blonde. Isabella McDonald had restored their faith in stereotypes.

  She’d undulated her ample curves down the hallway in front of them and pouted fetchingly through ruby lips, fixing the bulk of her attention on Liam. Annette didn’t care who McDonald pouted at so long as she answered their questions, and it would give her ammunition for teasing Liam when they returned to the ranch. As McDonald folded her legs elegantly beneath her on a plush velvet couch, Annette compared her pneumatic softness to the brittle irascibility of Erica Warner. It was like comparing an angora sweater with a hair shirt. She knew which she would prefer to come home to if she was a man.

  “Ms McDonald.”

  Isabella turned her false-eyelashed eyes in Annette’s direction, giving her a faint and vaguely pitying smile. What did she see, Annette wondered? A frumpy woman of middle years working hard in a world full of men, while she simply had to lie back and think of the House of Fraser to get everything she wished?

  “Yes?”

  McDonald’s accent was from an indeterminate location but definitely working class. Annette comforted herself with a moment of snobbery before proceeding.

  “Can you tell us your movements last week, please?”

  Isabella screwed up her perfect nose, as if trying to recall. She failed and reached for a small rhinestoned diary then recited her activities of the week before.