DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I receive a lot of phone calls. No doubt some of them are from overseas. It doesn’t, however, prove that Caxton and O’Grady were in Belgium. I knew Samuels, I’ll not deny that. From what I was told, he had skipped the country, owing me and others money.’

  ‘You didn’t pursue him?’

  ‘I tried to find him, but with no success.’

  ‘And if you had?’

  ‘The man knew the conditions of the loan.’

  ‘Violence?’

  ‘Not me. That’s not how I operate.’

  ‘It is, so don’t give me your nonsense. You use violence as one of the conditions of default. Kneecapping, trussing a man up and beating him senseless, following another overseas and murdering him, and then letting it be known it’s what happens to defaulters. What do you think we are, fools? And how do you keep one step ahead of us? Do you have corrupt cops feeding you information? Where are they? Who are they? Mr Frost, you will be next at the police station, and I intend to make sure you can’t wriggle out of this one. The case will be so watertight that even Sharman won’t be able to help you.’

  Frost sat back on his chair, a grin on his face. ‘DCI Cook, you have got it all wrong. I am an innocent man. Successful, I’ll grant you, and tough with those I deal with, but I am an honest and peaceful man, the sort of person who feels sorry for an animal in distress. I even donate to several charities in the area. Ask around, you’ll find that people don’t always like me, but there is respect.’

  ***

  Ainsley Caxton, a man who had learnt the art of saying little in a police interview, knew nothing about boats, especially the type that showed up on echo sounders. One of the boats from the boatyard, equipped with one to show fish shoals, the depth of the water, picked up the unusual shape.

  The initial detection was relayed by the river police to Greenwich Police Station and then on to DCI Isaac Cook, the highest-ranking officer attached to the investigation, even though he was operating outside of his area.

  It would be two hours before the police divers could be on station at the location. The boat, almost certainly the one of interest, was resting on the river bottom at a depth of twenty feet. The visibility was virtually zero, although one of the two police boats carried a submersible camera. Lowering it over the side, and taking into account the slow-moving tide, the boat moved up and down over the area. On the third run, with the camera at a depth of fifteen feet, an image could be seen on the monitor in the cabin. It was not clear, but it was recent, and it could only be O’Grady’s boat.

  The interview with Caxton was halted for six hours, long enough to allow a full investigation of the sunken boat in the River Thames. Caxton had been brought in for murder, so the twenty-four-hour deadline before charging or release did not apply. He could be held for thirty-six hours, subject to the inevitable paperwork being dealt with, long enough for the boat to be brought up from the river bottom and for Gordon Windsor and his team of crime scene investigators to check it out, and to bring in Forensics if needed.

  At the penthouse, Gary Frost was being kept up to date on developments. At St Pancras Station, Inspecteur Jules Hougardy was climbing into the back seat of a taxi, and at Greenwich Police Station, Ainsley Caxton sat in a cell calmly eating a pizza, confident that his boss would get him out.

  The Lawrence family, especially Ralph, were also being updated, a ploy by Isaac to relax their stance, to make them believe that Frost was more than likely the murderer of Gilbert, or the man behind the murder, and that he had engineered it to allow him to close in on Ralph. Not that Isaac believed it, but he wanted the guilty to feel as though they had got away with the crime. Caxton and O’Grady were known villains, men who had made a career of violence, but they had not killed Gilbert. Frost was not a murderer, just a smart man who used those capable of such crimes to his advantage.

  Larry sat with Emily at Greenwich Police Station, anxiously waiting for updates. The inspector who had taken umbrage at her usurping him hovered in the background, coming in close sometimes, attempting to draw Larry away. It did not work. Larry had spent time with Inspector Emily Matson, knew that her lack of experience was offset by her dedication to the job and that she was honest. From what Larry had heard of the other inspector, he did not trust him. The superintendent had come down, introduced himself to Larry, told him that he and Chief Superintendent Goddard were friends from a long time back.

  Out on the water, the two river police boats waited. A barge was on its way from upstream, as was a floating crane with straps suitable for lifting the sunken boat. It wasn’t a big boat, no more than twenty-two feet, but it was important that no evidence was destroyed unnecessarily. Typically, a sunken boat would be brought up if it was a hazard to navigation, or if there were extenuating reasons: insurance, valuables on board, a dead body. The first of the divers had been inside the cabin, found no corpse. The second diver had scoured around the immediate vicinity. Both divers were tethered to the surface by lines, another diver on standby up above just in case one of those down below got into trouble, but he was not needed.

  Seven hours and twenty-five minutes after the boat had first been located it broke the surface of the River Thames. Even after such a short time, it was covered in mud and a few crabs, some crayfish, as well. It was eased onto the barge and secured. The nearest land where it could be tied up was close to the boatshed it had first set out from.

  Isaac was at the dock as the barge tied off. Frost watched from his penthouse, disturbed by what he could see. The instruction to Caxton had been explicit enough, but then the man wasn’t the smartest. He should have known the river that close into Greenwich was not that deep. A more intelligent man would have taken the boat further downstream and into deeper water, but Frost realised that nothing could be done now.

  On the boat, now starting to dry out, Gordon Windsor was standing. He had donned his coveralls, his overshoes, his gloves, and he wore a mask, not so much to prevent contamination but to minimise the smell of the river and the drying mud.

  Inside the small cabin, Windsor picked up a jacket, inside it the name of Ainsley Caxton. He held it up for Isaac and his team to see.

  ‘It wasn’t there when the boat went out,’ said Joe Garibaldi, second-generation English with Italian grandparents. ‘I always check when the boats go out that they’re clean and no one’s left anything in them. Sometimes they leave a phone when they come back, or a wallet. You’d be amazed at how careless some people are.’

  Isaac wasn’t.

  ‘Isaac, kit yourself up. Inspector Matson, Larry, you as well,’ Windsor shouted.

  The three moved closer to the boat after following instructions. ‘No need to come onboard,’ Windsor said. ‘Just look underneath.’ The three could see the holes. ‘What does it mean?’ Isaac said.

  ‘The boat has been scuttled. There are signs of a bullet being fired through the hull, not that it would have been a big enough hole to have sunk it that quickly. Someone’s gone at it with something bigger, an axe probably. No sign of the gun or the axe, though.’

  ‘Anything else missing?’ Emily asked.

  ‘The anchor. If your man has killed someone out on the river, he’s probably been thrown over the side with the anchor tied to him.’

  ‘Any chance of finding the body?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Don’t raise your hopes too high. A few weeks and a body will be down to bones and a few bits of flesh: natural putrefaction, plus the fish and the crabs. After that, the bones could go out with the tide, the current can get strong out there. We’re checking for fingerprints, but don’t hold out for us finding anything conclusive.’

  Bridget phoned, Larry answered. ‘That’s great. I’ll be there within the hour.’

  Larry turned to the others. ‘Keith Waters, the kneecapped man, he’s heard about Caxton being taken into custody, also that O’Grady’s missing, presumed dead. He’s willing to give a statement.’

  ‘That means we can bring in Frost, and make it stick,’ Isaac
said.

  ‘For grievous bodily harm, not for murder.’

  ‘Okay, leave Frost to stew for the time being. Larry, you and Wendy take the man’s statement. Emily, it’s your show,’ Isaac said. It was her jurisdiction, and he recognised the need to bow to her authority and input.

  ‘A few more hours won’t do any harm. I’ll make sure that Caxton knows what’s going on. Let him sweat a bit longer.’

  Chapter 32

  Yolanda had been sad when Ralph Lawrence phoned to tell her about the death of her son. He had wanted to see her again, to make her come back to him, but he knew she would not. ‘He’s gone, Ralph,’ she said. In the background, Ralph could hear the sound of people laughing. In the Caribbean, she had a life and money and friends. All he could offer was a two-bedroom flat in Bayswater, and possibly years of legal wrangling while he, and hopefully his sister, took on Jill Dundas.

  ‘I understand,’ Ralph had said. ‘Will you come back for his funeral?’

  ‘Not now. I will mourn in my own way. One day I will return and visit his grave, place a few flowers, shed a tear. I loved you, Ralph, you know that, but we will never meet again.’ And then she was gone, back to her life in the sun. It suited Ralph to think that she would sit down in her quiet moments and reflect on her son, on him, the love that all three had once had, but he knew she probably wouldn’t. She had been a selfish woman back then, she still was, but he would miss her.

  ***

  Keith Waters gave his statement, Larry and Wendy witnessing it. Out at Greenwich, Inspecteur Jules Hougardy looked out at the River Thames from Zizzi’s restaurant on Greenwich Promenade. On the other side of the table, Isaac and Emily. It was Italian, and all three were eating pasta.

  ‘We have an old-fashioned fish and chip shop in the town,’ Emily said. ‘We’ll take you there before you go back, as long as you don’t mind it soggy with vinegar.’

  ‘A pint of warm beer afterwards,’ Hougardy replied. ‘But, for now, what do we have?’

  ‘If we can prove that Caxton murdered O’Grady, then he’s subject to English law. Whatever happens, he can be sentenced for grievous bodily harm.’

  ‘The case against him in Belgium is still circumstantial. We know he’s guilty, but our defence lawyers are as good as yours. Are you searching the river for O’Grady’s body?’

  ‘We are, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Unless it catches on something, the chances of recovery are slim. Larry and Wendy will be back within the hour. Then Emily and Larry can go to work on Caxton again.’

  ***

  Caxton was led into the interview room at Greenwich. He had now been formally charged with the murder of Hector O’Grady, a fingerprint having been retrieved from the sunken boat, as well as the lesser charge of grievous bodily harm inflicted on the persons of Keith Waters and Ralph Lawrence. The recovered boat continued to dry at the wharf, no more than two hundred yards from the police station.

  Emily was taking the lead role, Larry backing her up. In another room sat Jules Hougardy, Isaac and Wendy.

  ‘My client wishes to make a statement,’ Edward Sharman said. Procedurally, they were remiss in not advising him of one late development, but Emily, as well as the rest of the team, wanted the final blow to come as a surprise.

  ‘I, Ainsley Gregory Caxton, of 15, India Street, Greenwich, wish to state that I was not involved in the disappearance of Hector O’Grady, a colleague as well as a friend. The boat he had rented and which has subsequently been found indicates the worst. I had been out with him before, and I can only hope that he is recovered alive and well. The statements by Ralph Lawrence and Keith Waters are lies. They are both weak men who had failed to keep their finances under control. They are using fraudulent untruths as leverage against my employer, a man who lent them money in good faith.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Larry said after Caxton had finished.

  ‘The evidence is circumstantial,’ Sharman said. ‘I am insisting that my client is released immediately.’

  ‘It’s not so easy, Mr Sharman,’ Emily said. She remembered Isaac’s advice: ‘Start gently, slowly raise the tempo, keep your final arguments for last. Fluster, confuse, get them to make mistakes, not you.’ She knew that at the first interview she had not followed the advice given and that Sharman had bettered her. She was not willing to let it happen a second time.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mr Caxton and Hector O’Grady were in Belgium when Steve Samuels was murdered along with a taxi driver and two prostitutes. We have impounded the Toyota Land Cruiser they took to Belgium; CCTV footage and facial recognition technology have confirmed it to be them. They were travelling on false documents. We also have two witnesses who saw them there. If Mr Caxton is released from this station, an extradition order is in place for him to be rearrested, pending extradition to Brussels. Whatever happens here today, your client is in for a lengthy prison term. Bail will be refused here and in Belgium. Mr Caxton’s track record is not good; no judge will allow him freedom while he waits to be tried.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Caxton said. He looked over at Sharman who took no notice.

  ‘A bullet has been recovered from the boat,’ Emily said.

  ‘Is that proof?’ Sharman said.

  ‘The bullet is with Forensics.’

  ‘And what do you intend to do with it? It’s a bullet, not a gun. There are no fingerprints on a bullet.’

  ‘But there is on the boat, and we do have Mr Caxton’s jacket.’

  ‘I lent it to him. It was a cold day, and his jacket wasn’t as warm as mine,’ Caxton said.

  ‘Even if it was, and you’re telling the truth, it still doesn’t explain the fingerprint.’

  ‘I’d been out on the boat before. Maybe it’s old.’

  ‘We’ve checked with the owner of the boat. You had never been on that boat. There are three boats for hire. One was out of the water for maintenance. The other one was already rented out. We have full records and the testimony of the owner. You had been on that boat once, and that was when Hector O’Grady was shot and thrown over the side. Mr Caxton, you are guilty of murder. Now is the time to own up,’ Emily said.

  ‘It was an accident, I swear it. Hector was in a funny mood, someone had taken his girlfriend. We went out with a few beers, a can of worms and a couple of fishing lines. He was my friend. I wanted to help him.’

  Sharman looked at his client, shook his head. The first rule of defence, never admit to anything, no matter how inconsequential.

  ‘Why kill him?’

  ‘It was an accident. He’s out there, he’s argumentative, and the beer is getting to him. He was never a big drinker, and now he’s into his fifth. I tried to stop him, attempted to take the gun off him. He’s going wild, shooting into the water just because the fish aren’t biting. I grab the gun, it goes off.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Dead, yes, he was. I’m panicking. You would never believe it was an accident. What was I to do? I couldn’t come in here, throw myself on your mercy.’

  ‘O’Grady’s body?’

  ‘He fell off the side when the gun went off. I tried to grab hold, but I’m not good with boats. Hector knew all about them, I didn’t. I always wore a life jacket out there. Hector said they were only for young girls and weaklings. He could sometimes be insulting, not that I took much notice most times, but out there he was dangerous. I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘And the axe through the bottom of the boat, the bullets as well?’

  ‘I was panicking. I’ve told you this. What more do you want me to say?’

  ‘How did you get to shore? You’ve told us you wore a life jacket, but we found both of them on board the boat.’

  ‘I swam.’

  ‘You scuttled the boat first. And why didn’t you get on at the boatshed, the same place as O’Grady? Was this part of the plan?’

  ‘My client needs time to consider,’ Sharman said. Emily continued with her questioning.

  �
��Mr Caxton, you’ve lied about being in Brussels, you’ve lied about Ralph Lawrence, about Keith Waters. Why should we believe you now?’

  ‘Because it’s the truth. I didn’t mean to kill him.’

  ‘Mr Caxton, you will be held pending a trial. You will also be charged with the murder of Steve Samuels in Brussels. Also, the charges of grievous bodily harm will stand. Whatever happens, you, Mr Caxton, will be spending many years in prison.’

  ***

  ‘Five years for grievous bodily harm,’ Isaac said. ‘That’s the maximum for what Caxton did to Lawrence and Waters, concurrent sentences. The judge may decide on consecutive, but it’s unlikely.’

  The team, including Jules Hougardy, were sitting in the Prince of Greenwich pub. Everyone had a pint of beer, including the Belgian police inspector. Caxton was locked up, Frost was still sweating it out in his penthouse, and a search of the River Thames downstream from where O’Grady had disappeared, presumed dead, had found nothing. The sunken boat had provided no more clues, and the case against Caxton for the murder of O’Grady was based on the man’s confession, although he was holding to his story that it was an accident.

  ‘No chance of a conviction in Belgium, either,’ Hougardy said. He had to admit to enjoying himself away from his office in Brussels. Even Bridget had made the trip across the Thames, one of the few occasions that her routine varied from Challis Street to home and back. Both she and Wendy were making a night of it: a few too many drinks, a couple of sore heads in the morning.

  ‘We’ll bring in Frost in the morning, lay it on heavy. He’ll have the indomitable Edward Sharman with him,’ Emily said, jubilant about how she had handled herself during the interview with Caxton. Outside the pub a river mist was closing in, a clear sign that the search for O’Grady would be called off.

  Gordon Windsor and his team had concluded their work on the boat and were now back on their side of the river. The bullet recovered was with Forensics, although it would only reveal the calibre, not the make of the gun and who had fired the shot. Even so, breaking Caxton had been a good result. The car taken to Brussels had yielded nothing more of interest, only that off-roaders were a breed unto themselves in that they could take perfectly good machinery and subject it to so much abuse.