In the pub, Hougardy talked, his accent endearing him to the police officers and the other patrons in the pub. He was a hit, and he appreciated the warm welcome afforded him.
It was eleven in the evening, and the team were on their last drinks. Downstream from Greenwich, an elderly couple were walking their dog along the shore. They spotted a dead dolphin, not seen often in the lower reaches of the Thames, but with the cleaner water of the last few years, not unknown. The man, more agile than his wife, who was relegated to using a walking stick, followed his dog down to the rotting carcass. It was covered in seaweed and slime, and it was neither pleasant to look at nor to smell. Albert Gravelly, a retired bus driver, forty-two years with the same company and never an accident, took the stick that the dog always carried in its mouth. Looking at the carcass again, the moonlight reflecting off it, Gravelly prodded it with the stick. It was not what a man with a weak constitution needed. He shouted to his wife who was sitting on a bench ten yards away. ‘You had better phone the police,’ he said.
Albert Gravelly, a man who had seen many things over the years, especially on the late-night shift, had never seen what his dog had wanted to sniff. He took the stick and threw it for the dog as he walked back to his wife.
Chapter 33
‘You’d never make a sailor out of Caxton,’ Hougardy said. The full team from the pub were present at the site where O’Grady had washed up, all except Bridget who had left, not to go home, but to update her records in Challis Street. A former lover had accused her of being a workaholic, but she knew she wasn’t. She was just a person who enjoyed her job, and if the others in Homicide were out and dealing with an unexpected development, she would have felt guilty just going home.
The crime scene investigators were on the scene, floodlights had been installed, and a generator was up on the path above. The Gravellys, both in their eighties, had been taken back to their small cottage, the dog barking in the back seat of the police car. Larry and Wendy were taking their statements. They had found the body or, more correctly, the dog had, and apart from that, there wasn’t much more they could say.
Gordon Windsor and his team attempted to place a crime scene tent around the body, although a wind was blowing, and it was very exposed. In the end, a decision was made to move the body to a more sheltered position. A thorough check was completed in the immediate vicinity first.
Five uniforms had come over from Challis Street, another four from Greenwich Police Station. They were moving up and down from the crime scene looking for further evidence, although that was deemed unlikely, as the body recovered was fully clothed.
‘Not much of a sailor?’ Emily reminded Hougardy of his earlier comment.
‘If he had wanted the body to remain undiscovered, he’d have made sure to weigh him down, tie him off to prevent him floating to the surface. There’s still a piece of rope attached to the body, a sloppy knot.’
‘Are you into sailing?’
‘When I was younger. The man had tied a granny knot, not a reef. Not that either is ideal if he wanted the body to stay submerged. Are we assuming the man had been tied to the anchor?’
‘We are.’
‘Under the water, there are currents that ebb and flow, some colder than others. And knots are subjected to that movement, and they and the rope are buffeted. Some will loosen, some will stay in place, even tighten, and others will eventually unravel. That is what has happened here.’
‘He’s right,’ Windsor said. ‘The condition of the body indicates that it has been submerged, and not just floating on the surface. Also, the man had been shot three times, one of them in the head, area of the brain. There are signs that crabs have been on the body, but not many, as the body has not started serious decomposition yet.’
‘Murder?’ Emily said.
‘Three bullets, one in the head, it seems likely,’ Windsor said. ‘We’re not staying here any longer. The body will be taken back to Pathology. Isaac, you can go and annoy them later on this morning.’
***
Gary Frost, updated by his source, could only see the noose tightening. If it hadn’t been for Ralph Lawrence, none of this would have happened. He felt intense anger towards the man, a need to strike out. Used to making decisions, he wasn’t sure what to do. He was dithering, he needed out of the penthouse, out of Greenwich.
Downstairs, in the garage beneath the building, a car. He took the keys, left his penthouse and found the Mercedes. He did not drive often, but this time he would. As he came out from the garage, a police car opposite saw him and reported it to Greenwich Police Station, to the inspector charged with keeping a watch on Frost.
‘Let him go,’ had been the instruction. ‘We’ll keep a watch from here.’
The two police officers who had kept watch overnight complied with the instruction. After all, the man was their senior.
One of those in the vehicle, a smart young man, ambitious as well, phoned Emily.
‘What did he say?’ Emily reacted with alarm. It was still early, and she had just fallen asleep. She had set the alarm for two hours, not fifteen minutes, but the information was startling.
‘Inspector Camberwell told us to let Frost go. It made no sense to us, but we followed instructions.’
‘Any idea where Frost is now?’
‘None. He took off, heading west.’
Emily phoned Isaac to update him, then her superintendent. He was straight out of bed and on the phone. ‘Camberwell, fifteen minutes, my office.’
Bridget, also woken up, was at the office at Challis Street within twenty-five minutes, and logging into the CCTV cameras in Greenwich. The registration number of the Mercedes that Frost was driving was known, and the police cars in London were equipped with automatic number plate recognition.
Meanwhile, Frost had parked across from Ralph’s flat in Bayswater. He was in a side street, concealed from view.
An arrest warrant had been issued, with instructions for Frost to be detained and taken to Greenwich Police Station, suspected of being an accomplice to murder. He was not considered dangerous, but officers were advised to approach him with caution.
At Greenwich, Jules Hougardy was back in the police station. He had stayed the night in a hotel no more than five minutes’ walk away. Isaac and Larry were finding their own way back across the Thames. Wendy was with Bridget, helping if she could, lending moral support if she couldn’t. Both women were feeling the effects of a heavy night, although now was not the time to complain.
Edward Sharman arrived at Greenwich Police Station at ten minutes after nine in the morning. He was not in a good mood. Emily was pleased, so were the other members of the team. He had been updated as to the situation, a full report of the current status at his disposal. Ainsley Caxton, on being advised that Gary Frost had left his penthouse and was nowhere to be found, realised that he was vulnerable. He had admitted to the charge of assault, minor to him, as he had committed far worse crimes in the past. Sharman had chastised him for his outburst in the interview room. ‘You bloody fool,’ he had said. ‘All you had to do was to keep your mouth shut, and I would have got you out, but where are you now? Five years, if those fools testify.’
‘You can fix it,’ Caxton had said in reply.
But now, the situation had changed. Gary Frost was no longer around, a warrant was out for his arrest. He would be defending himself, not one of his employees, and where was the man, what was he doing? Was he running, or was he planning something more serious?
Sharman and Caxton sat together to discuss the situation. Sharman reflected on his fee for services rendered, realised that he was committed to continuing for the time being, but unless Frost transferred money to his account, then he and Caxton could find someone else.
‘O’Grady’s been found,’ Sharman said. As usual, he was wearing the three-piece suit, his hair immaculately parted down the middle. ‘Three bullets, one in the brain.’
‘It was an accident. He was out of control.’
‘They’ll not go for it. How do you want to plead?’
‘What will happen if I admit to it?’
‘Sixteen years minimum.’
‘And the grievous bodily harm?’
‘Five each, although we should be able to get all sentences served concurrently.’
‘You can’t get me off?’
‘Not on this one, and now Frost has done a runner. They’ll take what you’ve admitted to, the statements from Lawrence and Waters, the proof of you and O’Grady being in Brussels, no more than one mile from where Samuels and three others were killed. I can cause confusion in the jury, raise an element of doubt, but you’ll be convicted of the murder of O’Grady, and if you’re not, the Belgian police will have you extradited. No chance of their proving their case, but Frost has made fools of the police. They’ll not forget.’
In the interview room, Emily and Larry sat. On the other side of the table, Ainsley Caxton and Edward Sharman.
Outside, listening in, Isaac, Jules, and Wendy. In another part of the building, Inspector Camberwell was clearing out his desk, with another inspector checking that what he took wasn’t police related, only personal. He had been suspended on full pay while a disciplinary hearing was convened, a chance for him to explain why he had called off the surveillance of Gary Frost. His badge was with the superintendent, as was his phone. He knew that if they checked the numbers dialled, they would find the calls to Frost. He knew that he should have used another phone to call the man, but in the last few days, with the frenetic pace, the information that needed passing on, he had not had a chance to add credit to the phone that he kept hidden underneath the dashboard in his car. There was nothing that the police force disliked more than a bent policeman, and if he were in prison, there would be some that would remember who had put them there. Commissioner Alwyn Davies had brought him into London, put him out at Greenwich, and he was not answering his phone.
Camberwell snuck out of the office and headed to the nearest pub. He needed a stiff drink, and he needed it now.
Chapter 34
Ralph Lawrence turned in his bed. It had been a late night, what with Yolanda on the phone, yet again not wanting to return to London. In the end, he had drunk a full bottle of whisky before collapsing. He blearily opened his eyes, realised that it was daylight outside and that someone was knocking on the front door to his flat.
Without checking, he turned the latch on the door and opened it. On the other side, Gary Frost. ‘You bastard,’ he said as he pushed his way in. ‘You’re going to testify against me.’
Ralph struggled with the situation. He was larger than Frost, the man was alone, but why was he here, what did he want? He slapped some water on his face from a tap in the kitchen, before looking at Frost again. The man was standing firm: his face red, his hands raised in anger.
‘Frost, what do you want? We had an arrangement, but you wouldn’t wait.’
‘You’ve given the police a statement saying that I had you beaten.’
‘What else would you want me to say? That you’re a good fellow, a good mate? Get real. You’re in trouble, and you’re lashing out. When I came to you, what did I get? Sympathy, a shoulder to cry on? Not from you. I got Caxton and O’Grady beating me up, showing what would happen if I didn’t give you what you wanted, and now O’Grady’s dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s on the news. And Caxton’s singing like a bird.’
‘He won’t.’
‘Without you to hold his hand, he’ll be putty to the police.’
‘I need to get out of the country,’ Frost said.
‘Why look at me? My father left me high and dry. Look how I live. Nowhere as fancy as you, although you can’t go back, is that it?’
‘I’m desperate,’ Frost pleaded.
‘Not such the big man now, are you? It’s easy to be tough when you’re on top, but down below, where I’ve been, you’re frightened. Now, if you haven’t got anything to add to our conversation, I suggest you leave while I call the police.’
Ralph picked up his phone, speed-dialled Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook. ‘I’ve got a Mr Frost in my flat if you’re interested.’
Frost rushed out of the door. ‘You bastard, I’ll get you for this.’
Ralph knew he would not.
***
Edward Sharman knew that the situation was hopeless as he sat in the interview room. On one side of the table, the two police officers were sitting up straight, full of pride because they had brought an investigation to a successful conclusion. On his side, Ainsley Caxton had shrunk in his seat. Before O’Grady’s body had been found, and before he had discovered that Gary Frost had run out on him, Caxton had been full of himself, almost cheeky with the police constable who had brought him his breakfast, but now, it was over.
The confession had surprised even Isaac. Caxton had not spoken since entering the interview room and would not until he had left, except to give his name and to read his statement.
‘I, Ainsley Gregory Caxton, do admit to the killing of Hector O’Grady. I was acting on the instructions of Gary Frost. He has been responsible for other murders, none of which were committed by me. I am guilty of the maltreatment of Ralph Lawrence and Keith Waters. O’Grady was proving to be unreliable. Frost demanded that I dispose of the man. I followed orders as a soldier would if given a command by an officer.’
Larry could see Sharman’s clever wording. An attempt to convince a jury that his client Caxton, a man who did have a good army service record, was a man who did what he was told, a humble man who deserved leniency. It was a clever ploy, but Larry, like Emily, knew full well that with the litany of crimes against Caxton it would not lessen the sentence. He was going down for sixteen years at the very least.
‘Frost’s business empire was under threat. He needed to reduce his liabilities. O’Grady was a man likely to talk. He was physically strong, mentally and morally bankrupt,’ Caxton continued. ‘I joined the boat two miles from the boatyard. We had pulled in there before, and both of us were familiar with the place. Sometimes we’d make a small fire, cook the fish and then have a few drinks. I shot him, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. In Belgium, it had been O’Grady who killed Samuels. I was merely the bystander, but Frost intended, if there was no hope, to lay the blame on me. If I did not agree to kill O’Grady, he would implicate me in Samuels’ death. It was known that he had received a phone call from Belgium, and the evidence was mounting against him. I had regarded Frost as a friend, but when he told me to kill O’Grady, I knew he was not. That is the end of my statement.’
Caxton was formally charged with the murder of Hector O’Grady and taken back to his cell. ‘Where’s Frost?’ Sharman said.
‘We’re still waiting for him,’ Emily said.
‘Give me a call when he gets here. I’ll be representing him.’ Sharman stood up and walked out, not shaking the officers’ hands, not saying goodbye.
***
Frost did not return to his car. He cut a sorry figure as he walked, keeping to the side streets as much as possible. He met Ted Samson, the small man who had kept a watch on Ralph Lawrence on his ignominious return to England.
Samson was pleased to see Frost in the coffee shop, knowing that their meeting would come with four fifty-pound notes being slipped across the table.
‘Mr Frost, what do you want?’ Samson asked. He had ordered a café latte, the man opposite to pay. ‘I told you what I saw at Gilbert Lawrence’s house.’
‘You were looking for Ralph Lawrence, but he was in Spain.’
‘That’s right. You never paid me.’
‘How much?’
‘Another five hundred. In cash and now.’
Any other time, Samson would have been hanging upside down from a beam for his impertinence, but now the man who saw all, said nothing unless paid, was in control. Frost reached into his wallet and withdrew ten fifty-pound notes. He passed them across the table, the little man hurried
ly putting them into a pocket.
‘You’re a little bastard,’ Frost said.
‘Little, I’ll agree with, but not a bastard. You’re in trouble, and the police are looking for you. The word is that Caxton’s pleaded guilty, put the blame on you. The police have your photo on a list of the most wanted. You’ll be lucky to stay free for more than a few hours.’
‘How much?’
‘Another ten of what you just gave me. A disguise, is that it?’
‘I need to get out of the country. Can you arrange it?’
‘A good passport costs money. I can’t help you there.’
‘Okay, a disguise. What do you have that you haven’t told me?’
‘I kept a watch on Gilbert Lawrence’s house. I saw people going in, people going out.’
‘Which people?’
‘The housekeeper, the postman, the old recluse.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Another five hundred.’
Frost was running short of cash, but he managed to give the man what he wanted.
On a piece of paper, Samson wrote down the name of one more person. ‘That’s who’ll get you a passport.’ He also handed over a timed and dated photo from his iPhone.
‘I could have bled this person for a fortune,’ Frost said.
‘You still can. I’ve no need of a fortune,’ Samson said. ‘Just a quiet life, enough for my needs, a couple of pints of an evening.’ And with that, he left. Fifteen minutes later he returned and placed a bag on the table. ‘That’ll cost you two hundred,’ before he disappeared once again, this time not to return. For the first time that day, Gary Frost smiled.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 44
