DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  Jill Dundas sat in her office, the door was closed. At the reception, a man stood. ‘Tell Jill I’m here about an unpaid debt. Tell her it’s personal.’

  The lady on reception made the phone call. Jill Dundas came out of her office. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she asked as she looked across at a man with a mop of black hair.

  ‘Look at this,’ Gary Frost said, as he opened his wallet to reveal a time-stamped photo.’

  ‘Come into my office, please.’ The woman maintained her cool.

  Inside the office, Frost removed his wig. It had itched, and it had made him look stupid. It had, however, allowed him to walk past two police cars. ‘My name’s Gary Frost. I’m about to be charged with murder, and you, Miss Dundas, are going to get me out of the country.’

  ‘Why, how?’

  ‘You saw the photo. It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘Let me tell you a little story,’ Frost said. ‘I had lent a lot of money to Ralph Lawrence. I did not know of his family connection. And why should I? But then Ralph’s a naughty boy, and he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I need time to consider, and I get one of my men to watch out for him, but he keeps the information to himself, bleeds me for more money.’

  ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘My man finds the father’s house, realises it probably the one place that Ralph will come to. He sees the housekeeper, the postman, old man Lawrence. He’s a devious man that I employ. He’s like a ferret, here and there, scurrying around, taking me for money, taking it from whoever else. Maybe he took some from you, but it’s not important now. Anyway, my life’s taken a turn for the worse, and I met with the ferret. He tells me that he knows something, something that I’ve not paid for. He may be right, or maybe he’s been paid off. He gave me a photo, the one I just showed you. I’ve taken a copy, emailed it to the police, a twenty-four-hour delay before it’s sent. I could cancel it, but that’s up to you.’

  ‘I’ll deny it all, the best lawyers.’

  ‘If he’s as good as mine, you’ll be arrested for murder.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Not money. I want to get out of this country, a false passport.’

  ‘That can be arranged, but it takes time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Eight hours.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the north of London.’

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ Frost said. He had to admit he admired the woman: cool as a cucumber, a heart of pure ice.

  ‘I’ve not admitted to anything.’

  ‘Nor should you. Get me out of the country, a false identity, and your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’ Jill said.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think that you will honour the agreement. You will have your passport.’

  Frost could see no reaction in the woman: no sweating, no nervous twitches, no sign of panic.

  Outside, in the reception area, the noise of people entering. Frost stood up. ‘You’ve called the police.’

  ‘I haven’t. They must have followed you. Our agreement stands. Get yourself out on bail, and I’ll get you out of the country.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  ***

  Gary Frost sat in the interview room at Greenwich Police Station. On his right-hand side, Edward Sharman. Across from them, Emily Matson and Larry Hill.

  ‘We received a tip-off,’ Emily said. ‘What were you doing at the offices of Jill Dundas?’

  ‘My client has no comment,’ Sharman said. ‘He has given you a statement stating his innocence. He is a wealthy man who is being accused by others in an attempt to discredit him.’

  ‘Mr Frost will be charged with conspiracy to murder. We have sufficient proof to secure a conviction for that charge. Mr Sharman, you have seen the evidence against your client, as well as the testimony of three other persons. It would be advisable to prepare his defence.’

  ‘I know what I need to do,’ Sharman said.

  Outside of the interview room, Sharman shook the hand of Emily. ‘Not so good for my client, but you did a good job.’ With that he left the police station.

  ‘Who tipped us off about Frost being with Jill Dundas?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Larry said. ‘A squeaky voice said something about Frost having cheated him out of a hundred pounds. Unlisted number, so no point in tracing it.’

  Emily arrived at Inspector Camberwell’s home at eight in the evening. The man was still asleep after a twenty-four-hour bender at home and in the pub. A security camera had picked up Caxton placing the package under the bench near the Greenwich Observatory, Camberwell picking it up a few minutes later, even checking that the full amount had been paid. It had been another piece of information that Caxton had put forward in an attempt to deny his guilt and to portray himself as a weak man. It was not going to work, but it did allow Camberwell to be arrested: the most heinous of crimes, a police officer guilty of taking bribes. He would be detained in the cell next to Frost.

  Nineteen hours after Frost had been remanded, almost twenty-four from when he had sat in Jill Dundas’s office, an email arrived in Isaac’s inbox. He opened it and forwarded it to the team. Bridget printed out a high-definition jpeg and pinned it to the evidence board in Homicide.

  Jill Dundas was arrested later that day. She protested that the photo was a fake, an attempt at extortion, and that was why Frost had been in her office. She was charged with murder; the date matched the time of death, the blood stains visible on the hem of the dress as she had left Gilbert Lawrence’s mansion. At her house, the dress was retrieved. The woman may have been financially smart, but she did not understand forensics. There had been an attempt at cleaning the dress, but the marks remained inside the fold of the hem. Forensics were confident that they would be able to extract enough to match Gilbert Lawrence’s DNA.

  ‘I had to. All that work of my father’s, and Gilbert wanted to come out of seclusion, to make contact with his family. For them to forgive him, for him to forgive them. I couldn’t allow it. I had to kill him.’

  Ralph Lawrence and Caroline Dickson were stunned at the revelation. The full extent of their father’s assets, or whatever could be recovered, would be theirs.

  Yolanda phoned from Antigua on hearing the news. She intended to be on the next plane to London. Ralph told her not to bother.

  The End

  Murder Has No Guilt

  Phillip Strang

  Chapter 1

  Giuseppe Briganti had come over from Italy fifteen years previously with a smattering of English and not much else. Life had been tough back home for Giuseppe, or Peppe as everyone called him, the third son of a farmer. Not that he had reason to complain, as his father was a good man, and he loved his mother dearly. It was just that Peppe was not cut out for farming. So much so that at the age of twenty he left for Milan.

  He learnt his trade well, so well that within five years he was at the top of his profession, and constantly in demand in the hairdressing salon that was owned by a man who treated Peppe as if he was his own son.

  Yet it was the salon’s owner who had by his actions been responsible for Peppe’s hasty departure for England; the reason Peppe was in his salon in London cutting the hair of Alphonso Abano, another immigrant to England, although Abano came from Sicily, mafioso country.

  Back in Milan, Peppe had been in love, but she had preferred the salon owner, clearly apparent when Peppe had walked in on the two, in flagrante delicto, in the back room of the salon.

  Peppe knew that he should have hit her first, and then the old man second, but he did neither. Without saying a word, he moved back out through the salon, only stopping long enough to pick up his scissors and a couple of combs. Peppe was never a man for material possessions, and it took him just one hour to pack his suitcase, p
ay the outstanding rent, and catch the first train heading north. One day later, a train pulled into London, and Peppe stepped off. He had sufficient money not to worry for a few days, and he checked into a hotel.

  On the fourth day, he answered an advert for a hairdresser at the salon where he now worked, and in time purchased the business from the man who had first employed him.

  Life now consisted of enjoying his nights alone, his days in the salon catering to celebrities, the upwardly-mobile bankers and financiers, and, thankfully, only one gangster.

  In Italy, Peppe had catered to both sexes, but in Kensington, on Kensington High Street, not far from the palace, it was strictly men only, although women came in with their men.

  In one chair sat Guy Hendry, talk show host, a man about town, and a man who graced the front page of the celebrity-obsessed magazines on account of his film star looks, his perpetual suntan, and the women he took out. Peppe thought he was a Dorian Gray character, in as much as the man was ten years older than when he had first walked in the door of the salon, yet his women had become progressively younger, and the one he had now in tow, Gillian Dickenson, was five years younger than the previous one.

  Peppe would have said she was vivacious, with a permanent smile, a bust that looked artificial, and a skirt that barely covered her underwear, and yet she looked as if she had just left school.

  On another chair, having his hair cut, the vain and obnoxious Paul Waverton. The whizz kid they called him in the press for his ability to read the financial markets and to make the right call. His Bentley was parked outside, close enough to be admired by Waverton and the people on the street, illegally enough to get a ticket for parking where it shouldn’t be. Not that it worried Waverton as he flaunted his money, even giving a fifty-pound tip to whoever worked on his hair. And work was the word, for Waverton, in spite of all his financial acumen, was an unattractive man with hair like steel wool, almost like a Brillo pad, and as hard to keep in shape.

  Peppe focussed back on Abano. ‘Not so busy today,’ the little man said. Peppe would have happily refused his custom, but Abano was not a man to fall out with, the sort of man who had friends in low places who wouldn’t have any issues about giving someone a savage beating.

  ‘It will be later,’ Peppe said as he combed Abano’s hair back over the top of his scalp, the expensive treatments for premature balding not working, and certainly not willing to tell the gangster.

  Abano liked to talk big and to show off, not that Peppe wanted to hear the stories, only to take the man’s money and to shuffle him out of the salon. Time at Peppe’s salon was by appointment only, and in another forty minutes an important customer was due, a friend of royalty. He was more the salon’s type of customer, as were Hendry and Waverton.

  It didn’t happen often, but sometimes people without appointments came in, and as it was a Tuesday, typically the slowest day of the week, there was a spare chair and a spare hairdresser. But the person who came in was not a well-heeled man, nor a celebrity, not even a gangster. It was a celebrity seeker, a woman in her thirties, carrying more weight than she should, and definitely drunk.

  ‘Mr Hendry, Guy,’ she gushed as she made her way over to the man. Gillian Dickenson stood up to impede the woman’s progress, but she was pushed to one side. One of the other hairdressers attempted to grab the woman’s arm, but she wrenched herself free.

  ‘I need your autograph and a photo,’ she said to Hendry.

  ‘Not now, later,’ Hendry said in a friendly manner, in an attempt to maintain his on-screen persona.

  ‘Now, it’s got to be now. My friends will never believe that I met Guy Hendry.’

  ‘Please, now is not convenient. Send an email to my publicity company, and I’ll make sure you receive a promotional package and an invite to a recording of one of my programmes.'

  ‘You’re like all the rest of them,’ the woman sneered. ‘All smiles and teeth on the television, but total bastards in real life.’

  ‘Please, will you leave,’ Peppe said.

  ‘Who are you to tell me to do anything?’

  ‘I’m the owner, and this is private property.’

  ‘I’ll go once Guy Hendry gives me an autograph and a photo.’

  ‘Very well,’ Hendry said, raising himself from where he had been sitting, running his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Hey, you can take the photo,’ the celebrity-obsessed woman said to Hendry’s girlfriend.

  Nobody looked at the door to the salon, only at the commotion to the rear of the room. Peppe was nervously pacing around the room, Abano was on his phone calling for a couple of his men to wait outside the salon and to deal with the woman if she didn’t leave.

  Hendry, seriously annoyed and not in a good mood, smiled through gritted teeth, not even complaining when the woman put her arms around him and thrust her breasts forward.

  ‘The real stuff, you don’t know what you’re missing,’ she said.

  ‘That’s enough. Out of my establishment,’ Peppe said.

  A man who had come in unannounced stood just inside the door of the salon. He looked around him and at the people assembled. From inside the long coat that he wore, he withdrew a semi-automatic rifle. He released the safety and sprayed the salon, making sure that no one avoided the bullets. He then walked around to each of those lying or slouching or still groaning. He withdrew a pistol from his pocket and shot each person at close range in the head.

  In all, a total of twenty-eight seconds from first shot to when he left the salon. Outside, he casually walked away down Kensington High Street. Once clear of the area, he deposited the rifle and the pistol in a rubbish bin.

  Back at the salon, the screaming of the people on the street could still be heard, as could the sirens of the police cars and the ambulances. The man knew that they were too late and all they would find would be dead bodies. A most satisfying day, he thought.

  Chapter 2

  Kensington High Street, with the rush hour traffic building and multiple homicides, was not something that the local police were prepared for, although practice for terrorist attacks had helped. With no option, the busy thoroughfare had been closed, causing anger with those already stuck in traffic, and frustration with the other motorists as they were diverted around the area.

  Outside the hairdressing salon, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, the English-born son of Jamaican immigrants who had come over in the sixties, stood. He cut a striking figure: tall, athletic and erect. Alongside him, Detective Inspector Larry Hill, Cook’s second in command, and a man who struggled with his weight, self-induced as he was partial to overeating and drinking too many pints of beer, much to the consternation of his loyal wife.

  ‘Not good,’ Hill said, a typical understatement from the man, as he peered into the salon.

  Isaac Cook looked as well. The crime scene investigators were already on site checking the bodies, conducting their examination of the scene. On the street, barriers were being erected to isolate the scene from the view of the curious onlookers who were aggressively taking photos on their smartphones, and talking amongst themselves and to others.

  The two police inspectors donned coveralls and gloves, as well as overshoes, before entering, stepping to one side to clear the body of a young woman lying on her side, her heavily-bloodied face still visible.

  ‘Gillian Dickenson,’ Isaac Cook said.

  ‘She’s always on the television. Supposedly she was going around with Guy Hendry.’

  ‘She was. He’s over the other side.’

  Larry Hill, a man who had seen death more than once, looked around and at the young and very dead woman. ‘You never get used to it, not totally, do you?’ he said.

  Isaac Cook realised that he had, and that he felt inured to the scene. It had caused him concern on more than one occasion, and it had even ended one of his relationships when he had come home ambivalent about a murder scene. That time it had been a husband and wife who had been shot by a disturbed son. The gi
rlfriend at the time, blonde and in love with the DCI, had seen the murders on the television. She was close to tears at the story of how the dead couple had adopted the son as a child, knowing of his mental difficulties, and then the person they had heaped love and care on had murdered them.

  ‘It’s so tragic,’ she had said. Isaac’s reaction had been to turn off the television. Two days later, she moved out.

  Larry Hill’s ever-loyal wife continued to pressure him to achieve more, to allow them to upgrade their house again for the third time in ten years. He knew that he had neither the motivation for study nor the inclination for promotion with its added responsibilities. He was a man who enjoyed being out on the street, meeting with the villains, solving the crimes, not sitting in an office. And whereas he had the greatest respect for the man who had brought him into Homicide at Challis Street Police Station, he had no wish to take Isaac Cook’s position as the lead officer in the department once he had moved on.

  ‘It looks like a terrorist attack,’ Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner, said. He was a small man with thinning hair who Isaac Cook respected enormously.

  ‘But it’s not,’ Isaac replied. The three of them were standing to one side of the salon.

  ‘As you say. What we have are eight bodies, each with a bullet to the head.’

  ‘It looks as if they were shot more than once.’

  ‘We’ll send the bodies to Pathology, so you’ll have a more exact idea of what happened.’

  ‘Your initial observations will suffice for now.’

  ‘Okay. We believe that one person came in to the salon and used a semi-automatic rifle. We’ve no idea what make, although we’ve retrieved a bullet from the wall. It will help to narrow it down, but that’s about all. After that the man…’

  ‘Man?’ Larry said.

  ‘An assumption, and besides, we’ve got shoe prints. Typically, it’s men who commit these sorts of crimes, that’s all.’