The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) (16 page)

“What? You’ve just thought of something; what is it?”

Aloysius wasn’t ready to commit himself so he threw in a deflection instead, nodding at the small notebook now lying beside their cups.

“Go on then, you tell me what the sentence means. Prove that I wasn’t talking to myself in class all those years ago.”

Liam hesitated. He’d been steeped in Latin since birth. It had been part of the soundtrack of his childhood, like the rumble of tractor wheels and the cattle’s moos. Its cadences had risen and fallen depending on the time of year. Sometimes quiet and gentle, burbling along in the background like the small stream on their farm, like when his mother practiced her Ave Maria for the Christmas recital at the church, with dominus and benedicta words he recognised like modern kids knew the lyrics of a Pharrell song. At other times the stream had burst its banks; when the priest’s voice had soared in a Latin mass or the whole school had recited a passage at assembly on a Holy Day. He’d thought of Latin as one of his best subjects but the phrase in front of them had him confused, so he shook his head and answered his old teacher in the only way that he could.

“I used to be good at Latin, you know that. But this isn’t any Latin I recognise and our analyst can’t find anyone to translate.” He narrowed his eyes at the Brother, half suspicious, half amused. “I bet you could.”

Aloysius guffawed and punched his arm in camaraderie. “Well done, boy. I wondered if you’d remember. Yes, you were good at Latin, Classical Latin that is.” He waved his hand at the notebook. “But what you’ve got here is as Vulgar as it comes. Its use started when Augustus became Rome’s first emperor, in 27BC.” Just as Davy had said.

Something occurred to Liam. “Here, when did your man Augustus quit?”

“He didn’t. He died in 14 AD.”

“So Christ was born during his reign?”

“Well spotted. Is it relevant to your case?”

He made a face that said he wasn’t sure and waved the cleric on.

“Right. A modern comparator to Vulgar Latin would be the banter people used every day on the streets, rather than the formal language in which Ovid and Virgil chose to write their works.” Aloysius warmed to his topic. “Depending upon the city and occupation of the speaker, it could be harder to understand than text speak or rap are now to the uninitiated.” He smiled at Liam. “But you knew that I’d know this. It’s the reason that you’re here.”

Liam nodded. When Aloysius had paced round the classroom telling tales of daring do he’d almost always used Vulgar Latin to tell them in and he’d kept a note of some phrases in his school notebook.

The Brother shook his head, remembering. “I’m not as fluent as I was when I taught you. The headmaster caught me telling a story in it one day in the nineties and warned me off.” He drew himself up in his chair and adopted a solemn tone. “Only Classical Latin will be taught in this school, Brother Aloysius, and if you cannot adhere to that you should consider your future here. The humourless old…”

Liam cut in quickly, before Aloysius’ next word shattered childhood memories of him as a man apart.

“Does that mean that you can’t translate it?”

He lifted his notebook only to have it wrenched from his hand. Aloysius shot him a reproving look.

“Did I say that? I can translate it all right, but you’ll have to work out its relevance to your case yourself.” He opened the book and read aloud. “‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ translated into Classical Latin would be ‘a persona est confessio veri.’” He turned back to Liam with a pleased smile. “Very few people even recognise Vulgar Latin, you know, so I’m not surprised your analyst is having trouble getting it translated. It would take an academic versed in ancient languages, and even then they mightn’t understand the slang.”

Liam glanced at the clock. It was after ten and with the roadworks he’d have an hour’s drive home. Danni’s roast dinner was a lost hope. He urged the teacher on.

“So? It means…”

“Roughly it means ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true’. And I know exactly where it originates from.”

As Liam scribbled down the words Aloysius rushed over to a bookcase, rummaging through its contents and returning with a red-backed tome. He stood over Liam, urging him on.

“Read me that translation again.”

His excitement was infectious and Liam found himself sitting on the edge of his chair. It felt like they were on a treasure hunt. “A person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true. What does it mean? That people always tell the truth?”

The pastor didn’t answer. He was too busy flicking through the book, first to the back page references and then forward to the index, running a finger down it till he’d found the page that he was searching for. He scanned the page quickly and then stabbed it triumphantly with a finger.

“There it is! I knew that I’d heard it before.” He retook his seat, continuing eagerly. “‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’. It’s Classical Latin and it means, literally – a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, exactly the same as your Vulgar Latin tattoo, but it’s the next bit that’s important ... not made by way of torture. The whole sentence reads ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture.’”

He paused for so long that Liam knew something important was coming. Aloysius didn’t disappoint. When he restarted his voice held disbelief.

“But this can’t possibly be right, Liam. This phrase is centuries old. What is it doing tattooed on three dead youngsters in twenty-fifteen?”

Liam wanted to shout “I don’t know, so hurry up and tell me” But instead he bit his tongue and asked, “Where is it from?” with as much patience as he could muster. His restraint paid off.

“It’s a phrase linked to the Spanish Inquisition. You know who they were of course; a tribunal set up by Aragon and Castile in the late fifteenth century, to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in their kingdoms. The words usually followed a description of how, once torture had ended, the torture victim freely confessed to their offenses. Thus confessions following torture were always deemed to be made of the confessor's free will, and hence valid. The Romans believed the same. In fact they believed that without torture no confession would possibly be true. Or legal.”

Aloysius sat back, gazing into space with an expression akin to ecstasy. Liam was still catching up.

“OK, so the tattoo’s the Vulgar Latin version of a Classical Latin phrase from the middle ages, that means even if it was tortured out of someone their confession was definitely true?” He slumped in his chair. “How the heck does it link to three modern murders?”

Aloysius frowned, thinking. “I think…either they believed that no-one would be able to translate the tattoo and it would stay their secret, or they were deliberately setting you a puzzle to solve. They’re taunting you, but why is anyone’s guess. Although I have a nasty feeling that your case somehow hinges on religion.”

Liam groaned, picturing trying to convince the rest of the team of the words’ relevance, especially the ones who thought Latin was an ancient myth. But they couldn’t dismiss what Aloysius had said; torture fitted with the choke pear they’d found with their second victim.

He turned his attention back to the here and now, smiling at his old teacher admiringly.

“How could you possibly have remembered that? There must be millions of Latin expressions used in religion.”

Aloysius beamed. “Ah but, remember that I taught history as well. The Spanish Inquisition always caught my imagination. They were pretty vicious, but then so was everyone in those days.”

Liam guffawed. “Their image wasn’t helped by Monty Python.”

“No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

They laughed at the catchphrase from their youth and the discussion shifted to comedy, prompting the teacher to bring out a bottle of whisky and his old pupil to call home and explain that he’d be staying with his sister overnight. The Spanish Inquisition could wait until tomorrow and Liam already knew a woman who could help him there.

****

London.

Annette signed the hotel register then she and Nicky took the lift to the seventh floor, to gaze out of her window across London like two teenagers on a gap year. Tomorrow they would meet Yemi and his superintendent but tonight there were more important matters requiring attention; like dressing up in outfits they would never wear in Belfast and dancing the night away.

Annette felt a moment’s guilt about leaving the others to work the case and then Nicky held aloft the Greer folder and it evaporated. They locked it with their laptops in the hotel safe then removed a bottle of duty free Champagne from Annette’s suitcase and started the weekend as they intended to go on.

****

The Craig’s house. Holywood.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, well, as quiet as Mirella’s banging down of cutlery and repeated tutting and sniffing had allowed. When she hadn’t been doing that she’d alternated between gazing pathetically at Lucia and glaring daggers at Craig, as if his sister’s impending trip to the Middle East was somehow his fault. As she rose to get the dessert from the fridge Tom Craig beckoned his son into the hall, leaving a diplomatic Katy to engage the others in a discussion about Italy.

Craig senior edged them as far from the kitchen as he could without setting off Mirella’s abandonment alarm and turned to his only son, shaking his head.

“Don’t take it personally, son. Your mother’s just worried sick.” He glanced back towards the kitchen. “To be honest so am I. Your sister’s not as worldly wise as she’d like everyone to believe and Syria’s dangerous for anyone, never mind for an outspoken woman like her.” A note of anxiety entered his voice. “They’ve killed charity workers there.”

Craig looked at the man they’d almost lost two years earlier and saw the toll Lucia’s decision was taking on him. He looked paler than he had in a long time and Craig wondered how often his angina spray was being used. He was suddenly furious with his sister for putting their parents under this strain; he wanted to lock her in a cell until she saw some sense but instead he placed a hand on his father’s arm.

“I can’t tell you that it’s not dangerous, Dad. You’re right, they have killed aid workers, but Lucia’s so pig headed that if we try to tell her not to go she’ll get even more determined.” He glanced towards the kitchen and dropped his voice. “Katy has a theory that it’s partly because she’s lonely.”

To his surprise his father nodded. “I agree. She’s been unhappy since she and Richard called it a day. But what can we do about it?”

Craig dropped his voice even further. “If you can stop Mum from blowing a gasket, leave the rest to us. Luce hasn’t resigned yet and her job needs a month’s notice, so that gives us a little time.” He put an arm around the man who’d raised him, momentarily shocked by how thin he felt beneath his clothes. “Trust Katy, if anyone can stop Lucia going she will. Now we’d better go back before Mum sends out the troops.”

As they walked down the hall they could hear that the chat had shifted to the coming Westminster elections. Any topic was fine, just as long as it didn’t touch on faraway countries full of heavily armed men. As Craig retook his seat Katy gave him a smile that said the party plans were well under way.

Chapter
Nine

Queen’s University Belfast. Saturday, 11 a.m.

Liam had phoned to say he had info that warranted moving the briefing to one o’clock, and when he’d disentangled himself from his nieces and nephews after a broken night’s sleep and persuaded his sister that he didn’t need a packed lunch he’d finally managed to leave Crossgar. Now he was draining his third coffee and wincing at his hangover; he and Aloysius had hammered a whole bottle of whisky the night before; he hadn’t reckoned with the Brother having a hollow leg.

He smiled weakly across the desk at Theodora Rustin, flattered that she’d agreed to see him on a Saturday. He was pretty sure that she fancied him and had had her hair freshly styled because she did.

Rustin broke the silence. “Did you manage to get it translated?”

He withdrew his notebook with a flourish that said he had.

She sat forward eagerly, gracing him with an admiring smile. “May I ask who translated it? It wasn’t a language that I recognised.”

“It’s Vulgar Latin. Basically the street slang that was spoken in ancient Rome.”

Her eyes widened in a way most women reserved for the first day of the sales.

“Vulgar Latin! You found someone who understands it?”

Liam preened himself; her admiration was doing wonders for his hangover. “Speaks it too. A Brother who taught at my old school. He used to tell us stories in it, off the book so to speak. He hasn’t taught in a while but he remembered enough.”

Her eyes widened further. “Can you give me his name? It’s just that a friend in the classics department at Oxford has had problems with translations and they might be able to use his skills.”

Liam shrugged; it hadn’t occurred to him that Aloysius might get a job out of helping him but it was worth a shot.

“I’ll check with him and if it’s OK I’ll put you in touch.” He gestured at the text then spoke in the masterful tone that he was sure women liked. “Now, if it’s all right I’d like to focus on what I found out.”

She sat back, composing herself. “Of course. It’s just so exciting.”

He couldn’t help thinking that she was easily pleased.

“Right, the Vulgar Latin was ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ and my source said that in Classical Latin the equivalent phrase is ‘a persona est confessio veri’ and that they both mean ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true.’” He gazed at her hopefully. “Does that mean anything to you? In the history of religion stuff?”

She gave nothing away. “It might do. Do you have anything else?”

“Aye.” He quoted verbatim. “He said it originated from a phrase ‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’ which means that a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture. Apparently it’s a phrase linked to the Spanish Inquisition, meaning that confessions following torture were considered to be made of the confessor's free will and completely valid.”

Teddy Rustin gazed past him with a mysterious smile, as if she was deciding whether or not to reveal something. Liam watched her, puzzled. Something felt wrong but he couldn’t work out whether it was his hangover-distorted imagination or his copper’s gut. Before he could choose, she spoke again.

“I wrote my doctoral thesis on them. The Spanish Inquisition; ‘The myth versus the truth.’”

He smiled. “Catchy. You should have turned it into a novel, like those ones about Opus Dei.”

The academic gave a distant smile. “Perhaps someday.” She walked over to a shelf and lifted a bound volume, turning it so Liam could see her name embossed on the spine. “This is my thesis. Eighty thousand words.”

The number made his headache worse.

He gazed at her curiously. “OK then, what
was
the difference? Between the myth and the truth I mean.”

“You should read it and find out.”

Liam smiled. He could barely get through a newspaper with the kids crawling over him every night.

“Just give me the highlights.”

She retook her seat, turning the thesis’ pages slowly as she talked. “The Inquisition was originally intended to ensure the orthodoxy of those who converted to Christianity from Judaism and Islam. Later they got slightly more involved in crimes against the church, but they were never as bad as they were painted.”

Liam raised an eyebrow sceptically. “So basically you’re saying they just got bad press and all the torture and executions were a myth.”

Rustin laughed; it was like a musical scale. “Let’s just say they didn’t do everything that the tabloids said they did. They just had strong beliefs, like a lot of people nowadays.” She leaned forward, fixing him with an inquisitive stare. “You still haven’t told me what your case is about.”

It was a question that he couldn’t and wouldn’t answer. He closed his notebook and stood up, fudging his answer with “I’m not sure yet but I’ll be back when I am.”

It wasn’t a lie; he wasn’t sure yet. But even when he was, something suddenly told him that the lovely professor wasn’t someone that he should tell.

****

The C.C.U. 1 p.m.

Craig scanned the squad-room, waiting until everyone was seated before beginning. His eye fell on the vending machine cup Liam was holding and he shook his head in disgust.

“Seriously? You’re so lazy you couldn’t make some real coffee?”

Before anyone could answer he strode into his office and re-emerged with a full percolator, pouring himself a cup before passing it on to Ken.

Liam shrugged defensively. “Machine coffee means no effort making it and no washing up.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Nicky will be so proud when she gets back.” As Liam had spoken first he gestured him to start. He did, with a grin on his face.

“Who wants to know what the tattoo’s about, then?”

Davy had been adding milk from his drawer stash to his mug but his hand froze mid-air at Liam’s words. Deciphering puzzles was his job and he didn’t like being beaten.

“I was w…working on that!”

“And I solved it. Life’s tough.” He withdrew his school notebook from its resting place, opening it at the relevant page and settling back to spin his tale.

“OK, I thought I recognised the words from something I’d heard at school, so, long story short, I chased up my old teacher, a Christian Brother called Aloysius McGovern. He taught us Latin, religion and history.” He threw Davy a bone. “As Davy said, the tattoo’s written in Vulgar Latin; a spoken version used on the streets of Ancient Rome and as different from Classical Latin as how teenagers nowadays speak is from the Oxford English Dictionary.”

Craig halted him. “They didn’t teach us Vulgar Latin at school.”

“Aye, well, Aloysius was pretty cool. He used to tell us stories in it behind the headmaster’s back.” He gestured at his notebook. “I wrote some of the exciting ones down and I remembered a few words.” He preened himself. “I was quite the wee swot back in the day.”

He ignored the simultaneous snorts from Davy and Jake and carried on.

“Anyhow… Aloysius translated the Vulgar stuff into Classical Latin and then into English for me. ‘Gentum est confessio illa veritate’ in Vulgar Latin translates to ‘a persona est confessio veri’ in Classical Latin, and they both mean ‘a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true.’”

Craig nodded admiringly, to be joined by almost everyone in the room. In fact the only person who didn’t nod was Davy. He was feeling put out so he cut in childishly.

“Latin is a dead language, as dead as dead can be. It killed the ancient Romans and now it’s killing me.”

Liam guffawed at the old rhyme, neutering the attempt at bitchiness. “We used to say that at school.”

Craig motioned him to hurry up.

“OK, so then Aloysius recognised the reference as a phrase associated with the Spanish Inquisition. ‘Confessionem esse veram, non factam vi tormentorum’. It means a person's or a people’s confession is the truth or true, not made by way of torture. It sometimes followed a description of how, after torture had ended, the subject freely confessed to their offenses––”

Ken interrupted. “So confessions following torture were deemed to be made from free will and valid?”

Liam nodded. “Basically yes. Apparently the Romans took it even further. Unless it was made under torture a confession was
never
considered true.”

“ISIS would love that.”

Craig let the group chat for a moment; he was busy thinking. After a minute he smiled at Liam. “Excellent work.”

“Thanks, but that’s not all. I went back to see that professor, Theodora Rustin, early this morning.”

Davy objected. “That’s a woman’s name!”

“That’s because she is one. She’s basically an historian who specialises in religion and she did her thesis on the Spanish Inquisition. The way she talked about them you’d think they were just nice guys who were misunderstood. Basically warriors for Christ.”

He made a face and Craig picked up on it.

“What?”

“I’m not sure but I think she might know more.”

“Any idea what?”

He shrugged and Craig understood. Right now it was just an instinct; he would share it when he had something.

Liam continued. “Aloysius said a few other things about the tattoo.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, that the killer’s not young. A kid would have panicked and grabbed the nearest Stanley knife, not gone to the trouble of buying a tattoo kit. Then there’s the language itself. It’s complex so that means they’re educated…”

Craig nodded. They were good points. He turned towards Davy, only to find him seemingly pouring milk out of his drawer. He decided not to ask.

“Davy, see if there’s any way you can find out who bought a tattoo kit––” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head. “No, scrap that. They could have bought it online or had it for years.”

Davy said nothing, just smiled in gratitude. He was good but not that good; it would have taken him all week to generate a list.

Liam carried on as if Craig hadn’t spoken. “Anyway, I’m not sure the tattoo moves us forward much. We’d already guessed that the poor sods were being judged; maybe it means they confessed but it still didn’t save them?”

Craig nodded. “Perhaps; it’s too soon to say. But it’s all information, so well done.”

He leapt to his feet and grabbed a marker, writing the phrase and it’s translation on the board. Beneath it he wrote Spanish Inquisition, then a bullet pointed list. When he’d finished it read: educated men – possibilities: 1, Religious: clerics and theologians. 2, Academics: historians, archaeologists, classics scholars, linguists. He retook his seat with a gesture that said ‘discuss’.

Ken’s response was to add something else to the list; intelligence agencies. Craig looked at him quizzically.

“Explain.”

“Well, think about it, sir. We have a medieval instrument of torture used on one victim.”

Jake interjected. “Bobby McDonagh. We’ve got his name now.”

“On Bobby McDonagh. And we also have another reference to torture by the Spanish Inquisition, if Liam’s translator is correct. I hate to say it but the modern day equivalent of an inquisition would be an intelligence agency of some kind.”

Davy leaned forward excitedly, warming to the theme. “What about judges? Like that movie ‘The Star Chamber’ where a bunch of vigilante judges right miscarriages of justice.”

Ken shook his head. “The real Star Chamber was much more than that. It was a court that sat in Westminster from the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, to try rich and powerful people that ordinary courts would have hesitated to convict.”

“W…Well, that leaves out our victims.”

Craig dragged a hand down his face. What if they were dealing with some sort of high level moral vigilantism? He gazed at the board. Any attempt to narrow their suspect pool based on the quotation would cast a net over half the educated people in Northern Ireland. He wiped off the list and retook his seat.

“OK, let’s start again. Let’s not look at what the words mean for a moment, let’s just look at the language they were written in.” He turned to Liam. “How many people know Vulgar Latin?”

Liam shrugged. “Very few, I’d say.” He gestured at the board. “A lot fewer than were on your list. Some religious orders, Theologists maybe, people specialising in ancient languages and maybe a few classic scholars.”

Craig scanned the group. “Anyone else?” He was answered by shaking heads. “OK, so our first clue is the phrase being written in Vulgar Latin. There’s likely to be a pretty small group of people that even know the language exists, never mind how to construct a sentence in it.”

He jotted the words religious and ancient languages on the board and turned back to the group.

“What else?”

Liam drained his coffee and reached for the percolator to top up. “Tattooing says that they’re older.”

Craig scribed ‘older’ and waited for someone else to speak. It was Jake.