Code Runner (Amy Lane Mysteries Book 2) Page 7

  Jason leaned forward, intent. “No, see, ’cause I didn’t do it. I woke up and he was dead.”

  Karl pursed his lips. “Mr. Carr—Jason—listen to me. You stole a car from an old lady and went to prison. Last year, you shot a man and somehow got away with it.” He smacked the folder. “You have a juvenile arrest record that makes the Artful Dodger look like a candidate for sainthood. There isn’t a jury in the country that’s going to believe you’re innocent of this.”

  “I thought that was your job!” Jason tried to keep his voice calm, but he was rapidly losing it. If his own lawyer didn’t believe him, what chance did he have?

  Karl looked sympathetic, as if he wanted to be Jason’s best friend. “Your best chance is to plead guilty. With alcohol and drug rehabilitation, a bit of a provocation defence—I can get you a minimum term of twelve years.”

  Twelve years. In twelve years, he would be thirty-five years old.

  “I didn’t do it,” he muttered, desperate for a way out.

  “Then we have a problem.” Karl closed his folder and stood up, solemn as a funeral director. “I cannot help you, Jason, if you refuse to help yourself.”

  Chapter Eleven: Uh-Uh

  The police kept him waiting all day and night, fuelled only by water and something masquerading as food. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dai’s wide staring eyes and the web of blood around the blade in his chest.

  Hollow-eyed and hungry, Jason shuffled out to the interview room just after dawn, a fresh-faced Karl greeting him with trepidation. “Have you thought about my advice?”

  “Thought about it.” He’d thought about little else since they’d met. The only thing he had to hold on to was that he didn’t do it. But what if that wasn’t true? What if he had somehow, under the influence of whatever, murdered Damage in an unthinking rage? Everything in him recoiled at the idea, but there were at least eight hours of his memory missing, lost to unconsciousness—or forgotten in a drugged-up alcoholic haze.

  No, he was innocent, he was sure of it. He could never murder anyone. He wouldn’t let his mother go through another trial condemning him. He wouldn’t leave Amy on her own.

  “Just stick to the facts.” Karl smiled benignly, thinking his logic victorious, and trailed him all the way to the interview room.

  Jason recognised one of the officers—Ebbings, was it? He had interviewed him before, seemed like a decent bloke. He must be around Bryn’s age, but with a greying beard that was unevenly trimmed and which his long fingers touched at unconsciously every few minutes. The other officer Jason didn’t recognise, a grim, unsmiling detective with shocking ginger hair. She didn’t look like she’d take kindly to being called Carrot Top, so Jason mentally labelled her as such. You made what fun you could when you were handcuffed to a table.

  Carrot Top turned on the digital recorder. “Interview commenced at six-fifteen on eighth May, 2014, Cardiff Central Police Station.”

  Carrot Top was a Scot, her musical voice mismatched with the death stare she was sending across the table. But Jason couldn’t feel too much animosity towards a fellow Celt, no matter how strikingly orange her hair was.

  “I am Detective Superintendent Roger Ebbings.” His Swansea lilt was thicker than before, probably through lack of sleep. Jason took perverse pleasure in knowing he wasn’t the only one who’d suffered a sleepless night. “Please state your full name, address, date of birth and National Insurance number.”

  “Jason Robin Carr.” Jason hesitated a moment, unsure whether to give his mam’s or Amy’s address. “Twelve Canberra Road, Gabalfa, 19th July 1990. And...er, I don’t know my National Insurance number.”

  Karl helpfully pushed a prepared piece of paper in front of him and Jason read the number from the lawyer’s neat handwriting.

  “I’m Karl Yapp, acting as Mr. Carr’s legal representative.”

  “Detective Constable Catriona Aitken.”

  So Carrot Top had a name after all. More’s the pity.

  Roger regarded Jason seriously. “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” He had delivered that caution hundreds of times, Jason knew. Yet every word was weighted with importance, imparting to Jason the feeling that the law was upon him.

  “So, Jason, you know why you’re here?”

  Jason looked up him, a layer of sweat already coating his palms. “It’s about Damage’s murder.”

  “Murder? How do you know he was murdered?”

  “You don’t have to answer—”

  “He had a knife sticking out of his chest!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jason could see Karl cringing.

  Roger looked amused. “So he did. Know how it came to be there?”

  “No.”

  “Jason, I strongly advise—”

  “I said no!” Jason turned to glare down his lawyer, debating the wisdom of throwing him out entirely. But Karl wisely shut up and shuffled his notes, trying to regain his composure.

  “Well, how about we talk about how you came to be there then?”

  Jason glanced over at Karl. Just stick to the facts. “I was looking for evidence related to the murders down in Tenby.”

  “‘Looking for evidence’? In what capacity?”

  Jason hesitated. He might work for Amy, but she loathed attention and she had told him not to go. When he got home, she was going to give him the lecture of a lifetime.

  “Mr. Carr?”

  “I was...I was in Tenby when those bodies were found. I thought I might be useful.”

  “Were you working in any professional capacity?”

  “No.”

  “You were not affiliated to the police or to any private investigator?”

  “No.”

  “So, you were snooping around?”

  Jason bit the inside of his cheek, and said nothing.

  Roger changed tack. “So, you’re hanging about in Splott—looking for evidence—and you find what?”

  “I followed a bunch of cokeheads over from Canton and they led me to this boarded-up shop with a kid on the door.”

  “A drug den?”

  “Yeah. It was full of high kids.”

  “You went inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  Roger folded his hands in front of him with a knowing look. “You walked into an abandoned shop that served as a drug den and you want me to believe that you were looking for evidence? Do you think I was born yesterday, Jason?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And while you were looking for evidence, did you sample the wares?”

  “No. I mean, it wasn’t my choice.”

  Roger consulted a folder in front of him. “Yes, you told our medical examiner that you had been held down and forcibly injected with an unknown substance. Is that still your story?”

  “That’s what happened.” Jason knew he couldn’t lose his cool. He had to be calm, gentle, nonthreatening. They couldn’t believe him capable of anger, of losing his temper in a flash.

  “Why would they do that, hmm? Shooting up a complete stranger for kicks?”

  “I don’t know.” Jason suddenly seized on an idea. “But I knew them.”

  “Oh, you’re friends with these dealers?”

  “We’re not friends.”

  Roger’s expression turned dark. “Like you weren’t friends with Dai Jones? Or ‘Damage,’ as you call him.”

  “It’s what he called himself. Ever since he was six years old.”

  “You’ve known the victim since he was six?”

  “Since he was born, more or less.” Jason remembered looking at the squalling blanketed bundle with derision, no
t understanding what all the fuss was about. By the time Cerys came around, he’d already had enough of babies from minding Dai with Lewis on Sundays while his mam went to chapel.

  “Why did you hate him?”

  “I didn’t. I never hated him.” Jason could never hate Damage, no matter how much grief he caused him. He was practically Jason’s little brother too. Jason realised numbly that he couldn’t go to the funeral.

  “What about his brother?”

  Jason knew Lewis would come up sooner or later. “I never hated him neither.”

  “But you’re not friends anymore?”

  “He’s banged up.”

  “You were briefly banged up together. What happened?”

  Jason knew Roger already held all the gory details—there was no point in dodging it. “We got into a fight.”

  “You got into a lot of fights in prison. Lot of fights before then too. And a couple after. Are you an angry man, Jason?”

  “No.”

  “People just start on you, do they?”

  Jason tried to smile. “One of those faces.”

  “Did Damage start on you? Is that why you stabbed him?”

  And they were back to this. Jason closed his eyes. “I didn’t stab him. I woke up and he was dead.”

  “After your friends drugged you?”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  Roger gestured to the sky. “Who are they then? Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck?”

  “Madhouse Mickey. Stuart Williams.”

  Roger paused. Jason saw that he’d caught him off guard.

  “Mickey Doyle and Stuart Williams just sharing a spliff, were they?”

  “No, they were negotiating. About some coke that Mickey had nicked off Stuart.” Another memory snapped into place. “Rich Porter was there! You can ask him!”

  Carrot Top looked like she’d been whacked upside the head.

  Roger barely missed a beat. “You are referring to Detective Sergeant Richard Porter?”

  “Yeah, yeah, the one who was on the take for Mickey. Stuart brought him as a gift.”

  Roger smiled, but there was nothing pleasant in it. “Jason, making up fantastical stories about your adventures in gangland only tries my patience. There is no point in slinging mud in the hope that it sticks. It won’t wash with me and it won’t wash with the judge.”

  “I am telling you the truth!” Jason threw all his energy into his pleas, but they fell on deaf ears.

  Roger ploughed ahead, like a forward with the touchline in sight. “Here’s the truth. You went down into Splott looking to get high. You got off your head on alcohol, heroin and cocaine and then you stabbed David Jones through the heart.”

  “That isn’t what happened—”

  Roger slammed down a photograph. It showed the switchblade Jason had last seen sticking out from between Damage’s ribs. “Recognise this?”

  “It’s the knife what did for Damage.”

  “It has your fingerprints on it.”

  The world reduced to one spot, a small scar on the wooden table where the polish had flaked. Jason blinked.

  “Mr. Carr?”

  “It’s not true.”

  Roger’s voice softened. “Look, Jason, maybe you don’t remember what happened. I’m willing to accept that may be so. Why don’t you take a few minutes with your solicitor and I’ll go fill out the paperwork with the custody sergeant?”

  Jason couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He could only see that tiny scar on the table. Such a small thing. Barely noticeable. Barely even there.

  “Interview terminated at six-twenty.”

  Chapter Twelve: Black and White

  Amy wasn’t sure whether the police were morons or if Bryn had opened a door for her. Either way, she had access to the evidence as it was recorded.

  Rob Pritchard’s autopsy was brief and to the point. Death by severance of the major cardiac vessels, the weapon in situ. One blow. No evidence of resistance from the victim, indicating intoxication. Toxicology was pending but there was a needle mark on the inside of his left elbow.

  Same location as Jason’s. Those photographs had stirred fear in her, and despair. He looked so lost, his eyes vacant, bruises stark against his pale skin. The medical examiner documented that Jason reported forced injection of substances unknown, and tested positive for heroin, cocaine and alcohol. Amy wasn’t surprised—she had read Jason’s juvenile record, after all. She could believe he would partake, but he had wanted to gather evidence. She didn’t think he’d get high while working for her.

  The material evidence was damning. Damage’s blood on Jason’s shoes, long before it was dry. Both of their DNA on one discarded needle. And, finally, Jason’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.

  Amy carefully transcribed this information into her own files, mindful that her connection could be broken at any moment. She didn’t regard the knife as proof positive—fingerprints only proved he handled it, not that he was the last person to touch it or the one who plunged it into Damage’s chest.

  And there were unanswered questions. No blood on Jason’s clothes, his skin—where was the arterial spray? What happened to the other people in the room, the ones who’d left behind used needles, condoms and half a dozen items of clothing? The DNA evidence alone would take a week to process. They’d got lucky with that one needle because Damage was lying on top of it and, really, what were the chances?

  While there were still questions to answer, Amy was not prepared to consider Jason guilty. The media were describing it as a sordid act of depravity, and they’d already dug up all the old articles on his criminal past. They were already prepared to hang him—as that thought occurred, she double-checked the relevant laws and discovered that capital punishment hadn’t been around since 1998 and, even then, this could hardly be deemed high treason. There would be no hanging.

  But it seemed the police and the general public had already found their scapegoat. She would have to pursue the truth alone.

  The CCTV images at the front of the shop showed a number of people coming and going immediately before and during Jason’s time inside. There was a mass exodus from 01:09 to 01:13, approximately one hour after Jason’s arrival, but these weren’t people fleeing in terror. They appeared to be just lethargically wandering along, like a particularly relaxed zombie apocalypse.

  And then nothing until the police arrived at 10:53. There had to be another exit.

  Amy couldn’t find any camera that covered the back door to the shop. The closest thing she had was an angle on one end of the alleyway, and nothing on the other. There was a possibility that private individuals had their own cameras, but Amy didn’t have an assistant anymore to do the legwork. She would have to rely on what she had, poor though it was.

  The camera was old, the feed distorted and the lens filthy, but Amy scanned every minute from 22:00 until 10:45. There wasn’t much activity, but she captured the number plates of every car that entered the alley and tried to capture images of the few pedestrians who braved it.

  It was midday before she had an accurate record of the traffic in and out of the alley—but only on the one side. It didn’t conclusively tie anyone to the scene of the crime. It was hardly evidence at all, but it could possibly create an argument for opportunity.

  Amy checked her police connection again. A new audio file had been uploaded.

  “Interview commenced at six-fifteen on eighth May, 2014...”

  When Jason’s voice came on, Amy turned up the speakers and let his voice fill the room. It didn’t sound like him, not really, too quiet and...broken. No, not broken. Never broken.

  But as he spoke further, she could hear the strength, the fight still in him, and she had hope that they could get through this. The fingerprints, though...no, that was a minor setback. She had to
find a way to stop him pleading guilty out of some misjudged sense of duty. That was exactly the kind of idiotic thing he would do.

  Amy had to send him a message. But how?

  Her mind turned over the problem, too slow from lack of toast and tea, until suddenly it hit her. Of course, she had been so blind! She had to find him a lawyer—and she had to get eyes in the courtroom.

  Amy fired off a rapid email to her solicitor, trusting him to trust her when she said Jason was innocent, and texted Cerys Carr. The two women weren’t the best of friends, but she thought Cerys would be more receptive to her plan than Gwen.

  Less than an hour later, she buzzed Jason’s sister up to the flat, accompanied by her chauffeur of choice, Owain. The young detective had a bag of groceries, as Bryn promised—they all thought her incapable of even ordering an online shop for herself.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Amy said, suddenly aware that she hadn’t showered or dressed since Jason left two days ago.

  But Cerys didn’t seem to notice, her eyes slightly red and her skin paler even than Amy’s. “Anything we can do to help.”

  Amy glanced over at Owain, who made himself scarce in the kitchen. While her collaborators knew her methods, it didn’t hurt to keep them at arm’s length where the more legally dubious methods were concerned.

  “I need your phone.”

  Cerys trustingly handed it over without protest and Amy plugged it into AEON, running her own mod of the required jailbreaking software. “The software runs behind the scenes. It will be hidden from the interface.”

  “What does it do?” Cerys asked, more curious than afraid.

  Amy withdrew a small Welsh Dragon pin from her desk drawer, the crystal eye reflecting the light. “It establishes a remote connection between this camera and my computer. Everything you see, I see.”

  Cerys carefully picked up the pin and inspected it. “This is proper spy shit.”

  Amy had sourced the original parts from a retailer who specialised in KGB orders, but the pin was from a rugby-themed Etsy store. She had originally designed it for Jason but had yet to arrange a field test.