DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘What sort of nonsense?’

  ‘The starving, the downtrodden, the needy. We were all of those three as children, not much better now, apart from Brad. He’s got a chance.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, out there, no one’s going to give me a decent job, and why should they? A prison record, no qualifications.’

  ‘You could get qualifications, learn computers.’

  ‘Dyslexic. I’ll try to stay out of trouble, but it runs in the family. No violence, not from Brad or me; our father was the exception.’

  ‘I’ll give him your best wishes when I find him.’

  ‘Don’t bother, and what do you hope to gain?’

  ‘I need to know who else spent time with your mother and your sister. He might be able to help.’

  ‘DCI, leave well alone. Don’t rake over old coals. The past is just that, long gone. What happened to us, what happened to Janice, won’t bring her back.’

  ‘We can’t leave her murder unpunished.’

  ‘It would be better if you did. We’ll remember her in our own way, remember the young girl.’

  Isaac slipped a fifty-pound note across to Robinson as he left; he hoped he would use it wisely.

  Chapter 10

  Kensal Green Cemetery. A hunch. It wasn’t often that Larry saw things so clearly. He was a methodical police officer: follow the process, talk to people, move forward. Yet, as he had sat in the coffee shop in Godstone, looking over at the house, it had seemed more evident to him.

  He walked over to the gravestone, looked at it, looked for the imperceptible. If the subterfuge of the couple who had leased the house in the village was so good, then a random killing at the cemetery made no sense.

  Brad and Rose had only walked through a small part of the cemetery which was extensive, stretching almost a mile to the west and still within the cemetery boundary, sixty-five thousand graves.

  Larry studied the grave where the woman had died. He hadn’t had lunch, no food since breakfast at home, but it didn’t seem important, not now.

  He took a photo of the headstone with his smartphone; took a slow amble around the cemetery, not totally sure of where he was heading, confident that it was important.

  The first clue, the numbers of the plots fronting the path painted on the kerb. The first number he saw belonged to a sadly-neglected grave dating back to the 1830s, the woman’s name almost erased due to weathering over the years. Even so, a sad-looking bunch of flowers was placed on it. He couldn’t believe that a descendant still remembered, although sometimes well-meaning people felt the need to remember the lost forgotten. The number, freshly painted in black on a white background – 12813.

  As he walked, he observed the numbers rising in steps of three, which meant one grave fronting the path, one behind, and another behind that. An intersection, and a new set of numbers to the left and the right. He chose the last two digits, realising that they indicated the area of the cemetery; laid out in a grid, he supposed.

  The area he was looking for was 73. He kept walking, eventually finding it at the western extremity, just before the cemetery gate exit onto Scrubs Lane.

  From there, he chose left, the last two digits remaining the same, the other three slowly heading in the right direction.

  He looked around, realised that this was the most neglected part of the cemetery and rarely visited. There were no flowers here, barely a headstone, other than those that had fallen down. He presumed that in time, and if someone was willing to pay the twenty-two thousand pounds needed to purchase a plot, some of the bodies would be coming up; so much for the dearly departed, he thought.

  When his time came, a cremation, his ashes scattered on the garden where they would do some good.

  An elaborate and costly funeral had been more important in the distant past, before the advent of the motor vehicle, the upwardly mobile population, post-Christianity, and the suburb of Kensal Green wouldn’t have been the bustling hive of activity that it was now.

  He had come this far; now wasn’t the time to give in. He counted the rows in three, figured that 15973 was four rows down, the second grave in. The date that the occupant of the grave at the murder site had died, 15th September 1873, correlating with another grave’s plot number.

  He could see the grave, or what little remained of it. The ground was wet and soggy; he removed his shoes, knowing that they would make a more significant imprint.

  Underfoot was cold, and he regretted his decision. At the grave, he looked around. 1902, the year of burial, a man of fifty-six, of this parish., Larry was sure that Archibald Vincent wouldn’t be concerned with his ferreting around, not that he could do much about it if he was.

  On one side of the grave, the most neglected, the stonework broken in places, he found nothing. At the bottom of the grave, the same result.

  The headstone, which had fallen over, he carefully lifted a few inches. It was heavier than he expected, and he dropped it, not seeing anything obvious, the damp soil cushioning the headstone, not cracking it. On the far side, the dampest and the least inviting, he couldn’t see anything.

  ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said as he put one foot on the soft soil, sinking into it almost up to his ankle. He pulled his foot back, took stock of the situation, debated with himself as to whether he should continue or wait for another day. His wife was going to give him hell for coming home dirty.

  A man shouted to him from the path. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. He was dressed in green overalls, a badge on his breast pocket.

  ‘Inspector Larry Hill, Challis Street Police Station,’ Larry shouted back.

  ‘You won’t find anything in there. Dead a long time.’

  It was clear that the man, short and overweight, with a round face and an even rounder belly, enjoyed the humour of the situation. But then, why shouldn’t he, Larry thought. Death’s a sad time for most, but for a cemetery employee and a police officer, it was commonplace.

  ‘We’re investigating the body on the grave over the other side.’

  ‘And you think you’ll find something there?’

  ‘I think that I might. Does anybody come down here?’

  ‘People at the weekend out for some exercise, the occasional dog on a leash, not that we encourage it, always a mess to clear up afterwards. Some can’t read the notices, or if they can, they take no notice.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, I can remember someone down here ten or eleven days ago. A rum sort of fellow, didn’t want to talk, took no notice of me, not that he was causing any trouble, just walking around the graves. It was drier back then; didn’t make such a fool of himself as you are.’

  ‘This grave?’

  ‘Probably. In fact, I’m certain that it was.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’m coming out.’

  Larry looked where to place his other foot, to extricate himself. In one corner, at the angle between the far side and the headstone, a large rock under the soil that had been exposed by his moving around.

  ‘I found something,’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ll be over, give you a hand.’

  ‘Stay where you are. This could be a crime scene.’

  Larry carefully moved the rock to one side. ‘There’s something underneath,’ he shouted to the man in the overalls. ‘I’d suggest you backtrack the way you came, just in case.’

  ‘As you say, but after so much rain, you can’t expect much.’

  Larry did.

  ***

  Due to the relatively low-key nature of the site, one uniform had arrived, put crime scene tape in place to prevent entry to the area of the grave, and asked the cemetery employee to close off both entrances to the path; not difficult as there were boom gates installed. It was just a case of lowering them and securing them with a padlock.

  Larry had dried his feet, wrung out his socks after washing them in a basin in a hut in the cemetery grounds. A bar heater, not very
safe, but efficient, managed to take the socks from sopping wet to damp and warm.

  After close to fifteen minutes, the first of the CSIs to arrive, Grant Meston, a good man in Larry’s estimation, removed the rock. Crime scene stepping plates had been placed from the path to the grave, and it was Meston, Larry and the cemetery employee who stood watching as the other CSI took the rock and put it into a large bag. It was evidence, even if to the layman it was just an inanimate object of no value. That was how the employee saw it, but then he was a manual labourer, not paid very much, probably didn’t do very much either, judging by the general condition of the cemetery and the untidy state of his hut.

  The rock removed, the CSI withdrew a box. It was metal, in good condition, and blue.

  ‘Nothing special,’ Meston said. ‘What’s inside is important.’

  Larry knew they would not find that out at the site. Forensics would take that responsibility, subjecting the box to a drying process, water ingression was a probability. Whatever happened, it would be twelve to fourteen hours before any clues were revealed.

  It was, however, excellent police work, and Isaac had been on the phone to congratulate him, as had Chief Superintendent Goddard.

  Larry was pleased with himself; he only hoped his wife would be, considering that his previously black, shiny leather shoes were now a shade of mud grey.

  ***

  In the interim, Larry returned to Challis Street. He was behind on his paperwork, the bane of any police offficer; a vital component of modern policing, Chief Superintendent Goddard would say. But then he was a political animal, careful to say the right words, anxious to let his superiors know as to how professional those under his command were, not that it helped with the Met’s commissioner sitting in his office at Scotland Yard. The man had taken an instant dislike to Goddard and had tried to unseat him on more than one occasion, succeeding briefly once, careful not to repeat the mistake of having to rescind the order and to have Goddard placed back in his old position.

  Goddard didn’t like the man any more than he disliked him; excessively cordial when they met, buttering up each other, a metaphorical knife poised to inflict the fatal blow.

  Isaac, after Maidstone Prison, had phoned Bridget. It took her no more than ten minutes to find an address and a phone number. If the Robinson patriarch had been in hiding, or just keeping away from his family, he hadn’t done it very well.

  Hector Robinson was not what he had expected. Isaac had tracked him down to the Durham Arms in Canning Town. Isaac rarely visited the area, known for drug gangs and violent crime, so much so that courier companies were refusing to deliver there, and the police entered in groups. The pub was on a corner site; the railway across the other side of the narrow road, a scruffy recycling plant to one side, and on the other side, down Wharf Street, a factory, empty from what Isaac could see. The pub had a website; it was in an industrial estate, make as much noise as you like, don’t worry about the neighbours. Isaac didn’t understand how that concept operated, nor how they had unrestricted hours, and the photo of the pub in better times didn’t match what he saw, a two-storey building, the upstairs painted off-white, the ground floor covered in out-of-date green tiles.

  Robinson sat in one corner; it was four in the afternoon, and the crowds that the barman had said would be in later weren’t even trickling in. There was just Robinson, Isaac and the barman, and two of them didn’t look to be good company, the barman obviously three-quarters of the way to being drunk and the missing father not pleased to see him.

  Isaac regretted that he hadn’t brought support with him. He made a phone call, an inspector at a police station nearby, a colleague from their uniform days.

  ‘You must be mad,’ the inspector had said, colourful expletives included. But that was Bill Ross, a rough knockabout type of guy who had lived up north, run with a gang in his teens, realised the error of his ways, joined the police. As he said when he met with Isaac occasionally, ‘Not much job security running with a gang, although we were mostly harmless, but better money. Now I’ve got the security, a mortgage that kills me, and not much else.’

  It was the way the man spoke, but after he had called Isaac a fool a few more times, he phoned a patrol car to get out to the Durham Arms and make its presence known. It was daylight, they’d do that, but come nightfall, it would be at least six officers and two vehicles, weapons available if needed.

  ‘What do you want?’ Robinson said as he downed his pint, looked over at the barman.

  ‘I’ll pay,’ Isaac said.

  ‘There was never any dispute about that.’

  Isaac could see why Jim, as a youth, hadn’t laid the man out until he had been fourteen. Robinson was not tall, barely to Isaac’s shoulder, but he was broad, with bulging muscles and a nose bent to one side, a street fighter or a one-time boxer.

  ‘We’re investigating a couple of murders.’

  ‘I killed no one. If you’re here about Janice, I’ve heard.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not from you.’

  ‘We didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘You’ve found me now. What was so hard before?’

  Isaac hadn’t an answer. Robinson hadn’t been in hiding, and with the name of the suburb from Jim, it had been easy enough to find him. If Homicide hadn’t been so busy, and if the father had been regarded as important, it would have been possible to trace him. Even now, he was a person of interest.

  ‘I’m here now.’

  A uniform stuck his head around the door, nodded over at Isaac.

  ‘Back up?’

  ‘I’ve been told it's dangerous.’

  ‘It is. The reason I’ll be making myself scarce after you’ve bought me two more pints.’

  ‘The price of friendship?’

  ‘We’re not friends, not you and I. Brad’s out for a night of fun with some floozy, a good sort is she? And then, Janice is murdered.’

  ‘You seem remarkably well-informed, Mr Robinson.’

  ‘Only people who want money from me call me that. The name’s Hector.’

  ‘In that case, Hector, how come you know so much?’

  ‘Smartphone. I like to keep abreast of what my family’s up to, not that I see them.’

  ‘You had an altercation with Jim?’

  ‘Fancy word for him flattening me, a blow to the chin, another to the stomach. In Maidstone, so I’m told.’

  ‘I’ve been to see him. He gets out in a few months.’

  ‘How’s his mother, still putting it about?’

  ‘Not that we know of. Besides, we’re not investigating the foibles of your family, not unless they’re relevant.’

  Isaac took a sip of his beer; not a connoisseur, not like Larry, but he knew it to be of the worst quality, the reason the pub could keep the prices low.

  ‘We’re not relevant. Janice went bad, but then, that was always going to happen.’

  ‘Because of her mother?’

  ‘She was on the game, not that you’d know it. Back then, when she was young, she was real class, dressed up nice, worked in Mayfair, a posh establishment, influential clientele.’

  ‘She married you.’

  ‘Her selling herself to the toffs didn’t last long, and they always want fresh meat, no shortage of supply. Six months in and she’s damaged goods.’

  ‘You had no issues with your daughter prostituting herself?’

  ‘I did with the drugs, but if she came to no harm.’

  ‘She did. She’s dead, murdered.’

  Robinson was a despicable man who cared little for anyone, let alone his family. They hadn’t fared well without him, but it would have been worse if he had stayed.

  ‘She was pretty, more than her mother when she was young.’

  ‘According to your son, you would get drunk, start hitting your family.’

  ‘That much is true; I couldn’t handle my drink, that’s why I’ll only have three pints.’

  ‘Your wife accused you of ogling your
daughter, but Jim said it wasn’t true; that you were fond of her.’

  ‘A good lad, is Jim, not like that hag. My own daughter? What kind of person do you take me for?’

  ‘I don’t take you for anything. I deal in facts. It’s not for me to judge you or anyone else, only to get the truth. Your daughter is murdered, yet you seem unconcerned.’

  ‘I control it better these days. If I got hold of the person who killed her, I’d be swinging on the end of a rope.’

  ‘Capital punishment was abolished in 1969, the last execution in 1964.’

  ‘I’d still kill the bastard.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You’re looking? What about the men who spent time with your wife, abused Janice?’

  ‘In time.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘In time, that’s what I said. If I find any of those that touched Janice, at the house or that bedsit, they’ll know my wrath.’

  ‘Premeditated murder is a life sentence.’

  ‘Not to me. The heart’s not so good, steroids when I was a serious bodybuilder. And now they tell me there’s cancer.’

  ‘I’d caution you against committing a criminal act.’

  ‘Caution all you want. There’s nothing you can do to me.’

  Chapter 11

  Forensics had taken the box from the cemetery, dried it out, and set up a meeting for eight in the morning. A preliminary report said that it could have been purchased in any hardware store and that it was almost new and had been in the ground for seven to fourteen days.

  ‘It doesn’t help,’ Larry said, the afterglow of his discovery still resonating in Homicide.

  The cemetery employee had given a description of the man who had been seen at plot 15973, and even though it could have been the man in Godstone, the man who had killed the unknown woman, it was inconclusive.

  Slowly, the lab technician lifted the lid of the small metal box. Larry craned his neck to look.

  ‘It’s an envelope,’ the technician said as he removed it with a pair of tweezers. ‘No water on it.’