DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘There would be hundreds,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It will take forever.’

  ‘And you’ve got something better to do? Meeting up with the chief superintendent later on for a drink?’ Wendy realised that she was allowing her prejudice against the constable to show. The man had been warned officially; it wasn’t for her to aggravate the situation.

  ‘Constable Mortimer’s right,’ Katrina Taylor said.

  ‘It’s a tough one. Bridget Halloran is preparing a list of the hotels, discounting some that we’ve already canvassed. First off, we’ll start making phone calls, send an email back up with a photo and name, as well as the addresses.’

  ‘Isn’t there a central reservations database for the hotels in London?’ Mortimer said. Wendy didn’t warm to the man, but he was no dummy. He was asking the right questions, had been able to see the path to take to maximise the possibility of a result, minimise the legwork. Wendy would grant that the latter was not something she looked forward to, having done enough in her time.

  ‘We’ll work with Bridget on that. Most bookings are made over the internet, and they would require a credit card. He’s used Colin Young on the card he used to pay the bill at the Fitzroy. If he stayed in one five-star hotel, we'd assume that he stayed in another of similar quality. A bit hit and miss on that one, but we need to eliminate those further.’

  ‘He could have walked in off the street, paid cash, or he could have rented an Airbnb. They’re good. I’ve used them myself once or twice,’ Katrina Taylor said.

  ‘Our man stayed somewhere, and we need to find it.’

  ‘I read the reports about him,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Wendy said.

  ‘If he was a keen jogger, then maybe he belonged to a club, competed in marathons.’

  Wendy knew that she had picked well. Constable Taylor had the enthusiasm; Mortimer, apart from his leering eyes that stripped naked every young female in the station, had the makings of an excellent investigative officer, if he lasted that long.

  ***

  Larry knew that Colin Young was an enthusiastic jogger, which meant he had probably run to where he had died, but from where?

  Sergeant Dean Cousins, Challis Street Police Station’s premier athlete, who competed in the London Marathon each year, was a whippet-thin man. Every lunchtime, if he was in the station, he would put in five miles while the others were taking a rest or eating their lunch, or even grabbing the opportunity for sleep. And then once a week, he’d jog the eleven miles from his home to the station, a backpack with his essentials, a spare uniform hanging on a hook in the changing rooms.

  ‘What’s your best time?’ Larry asked. The two of them were standing by the side of the Serpentine.

  ‘I ran sub three hours a couple of years ago, two fifty-three.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘The winner ran it in two hours and five minutes. But he was a professional. I can’t hope to run that fast, not if I keep my day job, not even if I quit. Most of the winners these days come from Africa.’

  ‘And you come from Barnsley. A major disadvantage there,’ Larry said.

  ‘Some, but that’s not why we’re here, is it?’

  ‘You’ve read the case file, what do you think?’

  ‘Judging by the time in the morning that the man would have been running, his physical condition, I’d say he was a man I’d identify with.’

  ‘Crazy?’

  ‘Of course. Who else would find pleasure pounding around London, inhaling the petrol fumes, dealing with angry drivers and breaking the ice underfoot in winter?’

  ‘What do you reckon? The man’s running along on the path here; we can’t tell which direction. I need a rough idea as to where he entered the park, where he would have exited, and more importantly, where he may have come from.’

  ‘You don’t want much.’

  ‘I thought you could help. Sergeant Gladstone’s conducting a blanket investigation south of the park. Now, I don’t want to go heading off in the wrong direction. If you, a man who thinks like the murdered man, may be able to assist, it’d be appreciated.’

  ‘Not all joggers think the same, and we tend to vary the route, prevent boredom.’

  ‘I thought you people were fanatical.’

  ‘We are, and when the adrenaline rush kicks in, then it’s great. But you can’t guarantee that every time, especially when the weather’s not so good. The muscles don’t warm up enough and the times are down.’

  ‘Crazy, as I said.’

  ‘Mad as a hatter, but that’s what jogging is about. Overcome the adversity, enjoy the outdoors, push through the pain barrier, reap the rewards.’

  Larry looked at the water, the tourists walking behind them. ‘Tranquil, it’s kind of beautiful standing here. Not the place for murder, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Where is? You want my thoughts on where the man would have run?’

  ‘If you can.’

  ‘I run around it sometimes. The park is closed from midnight to five in the morning. If he came after five, then he could have entered anywhere. Before that, he would have had to jump the fence, and the parks are patrolled at night.’

  ‘From 5 a.m. is fine.’

  ‘It would help if CCTV cameras had picked him up outside.’

  ‘It was dark and an early-morning fog.’

  ‘You said he stayed in a hotel in Paddington on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘Four to be precise, but not this time.’

  ‘If it were Paddington, then he would have probably jogged down Westbourne Street. If he had chosen Lancaster Terrace, that would have been one more road to cross. Nothing a serious jogger likes less is to be held up by traffic lights and pedestrian crossings.’

  ‘Let’s assume he stayed somewhere close to the Fitzroy.’

  ‘He would have crossed Bayswater Road and entered by the gate near to Buckhill Lodge. You can rent it out sometimes, expensive though, and beyond my salary.’

  ‘Assume Buckhill Lodge as his entry point.’

  ‘Have you checked with the people staying there?’

  ‘We have; no luck.’

  ‘If he had gone down Lancaster Terrace, he would have entered through Lancaster Gate. It’s not far from Buckhill Lodge, and it makes little difference as to the route he took. He’s in the park now, which way to go?’

  ‘What would you choose?

  ‘It’s just over two miles to run around the Serpentine. Scenically, it would be attractive, but a serious jogger’s looking for more than that.’

  ‘How many miles do you run a day?’

  ‘If I’ve got a marathon coming up, I’ll aim for ten.’

  ‘And you achieve it?’

  ‘It’s hard, but yes. Most weeks, I’ll run five a day.’

  ‘You’re in the park, what then?’

  ‘Head left down towards Marble Arch, then run down alongside Park Lane, keeping in the park. Before I reach the end, I would swing right and run alongside the lake, keeping to the Kensington side, up past the swimming pool, take the tunnel under West Carriage Drive and up to where we’re standing.’

  ‘And the alternative?’

  ‘In reverse. If the man was a keen jogger, it’s the route he would have taken.’

  ‘But the person who struck him, ensuring that he fell back into the water wouldn’t have been jogging, just waiting.’

  ‘Then the murderer must have known the man’s movements. And if he was predictable, then others must have seen him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Other joggers, people walking through the park, the staff at the Lido Café.’

  ‘Too early for the café, and it would need people who were here on a regular basis.’

  ‘Sorry, can’t help you anymore. I can put you in touch with some friends who run through here more often than I do, although I reckon that’s the route he would have taken.’

  Chapter 5

  ‘No idea on this o
ne?’ Chief Superintendent Goddard asked. He was sitting behind his desk, the panoramic view of London behind him.

  ‘Until we know the man’s real name, we’re hitting a brick wall,’ Isaac said from his side of the desk. ‘The man’s suspicious, but there’s no record. We’ve checked the usual: DNA, dental, photo.’

  ‘Yet he uses a false name and address.’

  ‘He’s been stringing along a married woman. We don’t know if it was love, or whether it was just a dalliance. Not that he ever took money from her, not that we know of. The woman’s husband is involved with military technology. It’s an avenue that may be pursued at some stage.’

  ‘Espionage, attempting to find out details of the technology?’

  ‘Something like that. We’ve not spoken to the husband, and his company is subject to the Official Secrets Act. We could go barging in, blow the woman’s alibi, or whatever she’s been using to hide the truth from her husband.’

  ‘You think that the dead man could have been involved with a foreign power?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘I hope not. We became involved with the secret service on a previous case. Ended up getting messy, almost destroyed our careers.’

  ‘It could have got you killed.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t want to go there,’ Isaac said. ‘Pandora’s box. If we open the lid, who knows what or who will come out.’

  ‘Don’t pursue that angle yet. You reckon that the dead man was involved with other women?’

  ‘Assumptions, and not very good at that. He used a bogus address and name, credit cards delivered to a post office box.’

  ‘Unusual in itself, not strictly illegal.’

  ‘The account where the credit card draws its money is offshore, but it’s paid off in full each month.’

  ‘He may be an overseas contractor, paid offshore.’

  ‘Then why the false name?’

  ‘I can’t help you there. How’s Jenny?’

  ‘She’s fine. We were going to Jamaica, but with this murder, I’ve put it on hold.’

  ‘Once it’s over, come over to the house, the two of you. You can call me Richard there, not sir.’

  ‘You know I can’t, never have, never will.’

  Goddard laughed, knowing full well that in all the years they had known each other, the times they had met socially, his DCI had never once referred to him as anything other than ‘sir’ or ‘chief superintendent’.

  Isaac left and returned downstairs to his office. A report had to be dealt with; he was not excited at the prospect. Too much time spent in the office, too much time dealing with reporting and budgetary constraints, trying to justify the need for extra staff, receiving the customary rejection.

  Restless, Isaac left his office and went and sat with the two constables that were working with Wendy. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  Katrina Taylor, he knew; Mortimer, he did not, other than by reputation. It was not for him to form an opinion of the man, and he could only be civil to him.

  ‘No luck, DCI. Sergeant Gladstone’s meeting with Christine Mason. We’re ploughing through the hotels, phoning some, emailing others. It could take some time,’ Katrina Taylor said.

  ‘We could do with some help, sir,’ Mortimer said.

  ‘We all could,’ Isaac replied. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t get you any yet. Find where Colin Young has been, and then maybe.’

  As Isaac left the two constables, he leant over and whispered in Katrina Taylor’s ear. ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Not yet. Best behaviour. You’ve heard?’

  ‘I have. If it happens, or you think it’s about to, give me a call. Wendy says he’s competent, just that his eyes are too big for his head,’ Isaac said.

  ***

  Wendy could see that Christine Mason was an insecure woman. Even when meeting at a café close to Paddington Station, she was nervous.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ the Fitzroy’s account manager said. ‘Trouble with balancing the books.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ Wendy said. She had arrived earlier and had ordered a latte and a slice of cheesecake.

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘After here. You’re the only one, proof positive, that can confirm that it’s the man you knew.’

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘We’re certain it is, but you seeing him may jog something in your memory. Something you’ve failed to tell us.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know. I loved him, you know.’

  ‘That’s not what you said before. The truth, please. Did you love him, or are you now upset that he may have been playing the field, spending time with you for the benefits?’

  ‘What benefits?’

  ‘Financial.’

  ‘Well, I did lend him some money once, but he paid it back.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Not all. That’s the problem at the hotel.’

  ‘You’ve been borrowing money from the hotel, IOUs, and you’ve not paid it back? That’s a criminal offence.’

  ‘I know, and now I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Your husband has money, so do you.’

  ‘Joint accounts and he’s fastidious. He’d know if I did that.’

  ‘It’s going to come out at some time. Did you kill him?’

  ‘Who? My husband or Colin?’

  ‘Colin Young. Had you contemplated leaving your husband and moving in with him?’

  ‘Silly dreams, the same as a pubescent girl, her first crush on a boy. Imagining the two of you living the “happy ever after”.’

  ‘We grow out of it, most of us do,’ Wendy said, remembering back to Bradley Lawson. The two of them, just fifteen, and there behind the barn on his father’s farm. She had lost her virginity to him, him plighting his troth, telling her it would be forever. And then two weeks later, she had caught him with her best friend, Theresa. The same barn, the same corny lines, another gullible teenager. She smiled as she thought back to that day, not that she had smiled at the time. She had been so angry, and stronger than most of the boys at that age, that she had pulled him off her now ex-friend, his trousers around his ankles, Theresa’s skirt up high. With one shove, she had pushed him onto a cowpat, his naked backside sinking in deep. As he struggled to stand, she had hit him square in the face with a clenched fist, breaking two teeth and his nose.

  Bradley, the young lover, had required dentistry to fix the teeth, although the nose always remained off to one side. Not a good look for someone who had become a lawyer, not that anyone would have ever asked. Those who would have seen it as they sat in his plush office in Sheffield would have thought it was from rugby at school, not from a helpless woman he had seduced and then rejected.

  Theresa, the friend, had not fared any better that day. After punishing Bradley, Wendy had grabbed her by the hair and thrust her face down into the cowpat. No one would have known but Theresa, humiliated and upset, had told her mother – leaving out some of the sordid details – who had then complained to Wendy’s father and the headmaster at school. Not that either of them had been under any illusion. Her father was a man of the soil, a farmer. He knew the truth, so did the headmaster.

  In the end, lacking resolution and an apology, Theresa had blabbed to her other best friend in the strictest confidence. But it was a school playground confidence, and one hour later the whole school knew. Wendy was the heroine, Theresa, the tart, and Bradley Lawson was a weakling to some due to a woman besting him, a source of admiration to others in that he had made love to the two of them; not that love was the word used, not in a school, not amongst young men.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Christine said. ‘I knew it was wrong, but every time Colin phoned, I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Two thousand pounds. Not a lot in itself, but my husband, he’s the jealous type.’

  ‘And he would know? Couldn’t you tell him that you had to buy some clothes, some furniture for the house, a surprise for him?’

  ‘You don’t k
now him, or you wouldn’t even think it, let alone suggest it.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘Never, not with me.’

  ‘Capable of murder?’

  ‘You think he might have found out?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. It’s normally the nearest and dearest who commit the murders.’

  ‘He’s the nearest, I’m not so sure about the dearest.’

  Wendy ordered another latte and a slice of cheesecake. Christine ordered the same. Wendy liked the woman, although she couldn’t understand why she had been so foolish. It was increasingly looking as though the woman had been the target of a skilled seduction, and if Colin Young could seduce one, then he could seduce two, possibly more.

  Regardless of who the dead man really was, Wendy’s conversation with Christine Mason revealed one thing: the woman’s husband was a possessive man, a man who probably regarded his wife as one of his possessions. The sort of man that profiling would consider to be a prime candidate to commit murder if he knew. And that was the question that needed to be answered. Wendy looked across at the woman who was starting to drift away, a glazed look in her eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’

  ‘Your problems seem more serious than mine.’

  ‘Tony will find out eventually, won’t he?’

  ‘He will. Have you told me the whole truth?’

  ‘I think so. Can I see Colin?’

  Christine Mason excused herself for a couple of minutes. Wendy could see that she wanted to cry.

  ‘Stay with her,’ Isaac said when Wendy phoned him.

  ‘She might remember something else, or she might be holding back. Ask DI Hill to check out her husband. He could be dangerous, and when he finds out, he could attack his wife.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she gets away from him?’

  ‘It’s not for me to suggest. We need to document what she’s told me, what I’ve said to her, just in case.’

  ‘Make sure it’s in your report when you type it up, or should I say when Bridget does. Just get the facts straight, that’s all.’

  ‘We’re going to look at the body.’

  ‘Have they been told?’