DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  Two in the morning, the report was ready. Isaac, not willing to leave anything to chance, phoned Goddard.

  ‘What is it?’ Goddard said on answering the phone. Isaac had known that he wouldn’t be annoyed. He was still a friend.

  ‘You’re not going to like it,’ Isaac said. Homicide was quiet, the other three had left the office.

  ‘I’m not going to like a dressing down from Davies either. What have you got?’

  ‘The BMW in Canning Town and Godstone are one and the same.’

  ‘Proven?’

  ‘Ninety per cent. We'll be checking CCTV cameras out in Canning, the ones that still work. We have the registration of the BMW in Godstone. If we get a match, then we’re one step ahead.

  ‘Ahead or on the first rung?’

  ‘The BMW was picked up in Godstone by an Asian woman; matches the description of the woman in Holland Park.’

  ‘Matches or you’re thinking it does?’

  ‘There’s a correlation, something we need to check further.’

  ‘While Davies is slowing you down by wasting your time producing reports, attempting to keep me out of the dog house.’

  ‘I think you’re already there, sir,’ Isaac said.

  ‘And so are you. It’s a tough case, and I appreciate that you and your people are doing your best, but we’ve no results, only deaths. More to come?’

  ‘We can’t protect everyone, not even us.’

  ‘Davies doesn’t understand, up in his ivory tower.’

  ‘We need to revisit Holland Park,’ Isaac said. He looked up at the clock, saw that it was 2.23 a.m. Jenny would wake when he arrived home, whatever time it was. He had a duty to the murder investigation; a duty to her. Sometimes it wasn’t easy to know which was more important.

  ‘Armed response?’

  ‘Will you authorise it?’

  ‘Phone them, get hold of their inspector, take a couple of men, not the full squad, too expensive, and an overkill.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Isaac said. ‘I was targeted in Canning Town.’

  ‘Don’t tell your wife; she’ll freak out.’

  Isaac had never had any intention of doing that. He went and made a cup of tea, sat down, put his feet on the table, attempted to ease the tension in his body. It was stress, and it was unhealthy.

  The next Isaac knew it was 3.56. He had slept for over ninety minutes. Slipping on his jacket and grabbing his keys, he headed for the door; Jenny would be worried.

  ***

  The revisit to Holland Park proved to be an anti-climax. Larry had expected more, but on arrival at the house, it was soon apparent that the place had been vacated.

  After what seemed longer, but was documented as two minutes thirty seconds, one of the armed response officers gave the all-clear.

  Larry looked around. Nothing had changed. There was food in the fridge, a good stock of quality wine, and the television was switched on.

  ‘How long since they left?’ one of the armed response team asked.

  ‘Long enough,’ Larry’s response.

  Ian Naughton and Analyn were gone. Upstairs no clothes remained, only a toothbrush in one of the bedrooms, a solitary earring on the floor.

  Gordon Windsor was alerted; his team of CSIs would check out the place, find out if there was anything to give a clue as to who the two people were.

  Forty-eight hours after he had been held over, Warren Preston walked out of the front door of the Canning Town Police Station, raising two fingers at Ross, then thrusting his arm with a clenched fist up at an angle to make a statement: up yours, copper, it said.

  Bill Ross hadn’t reacted. He was used to it by now.

  ***

  The Durham Arms was quiet, its licence temporarily revoked, although a few more days and the place would be back to normal. Bill Ross wasn’t sure how, but he suspected that money, bribe money, was being handed around. The pub was a goldmine located in the centre of a garbage dump. He rarely visited it, but he had to admit to doing so once or twice when he had been transferred to Canning Town after he had roughed up a couple of suspects who had broken into an off-licence, helped themselves to a few cartons of beer, two dozen bottles of cheap wine.

  Idiots, he had called them, plus a few more words that he shouldn’t have. Out on the street, the language was often crude and insensitive, but a police officer was meant to keep his cool, not to offend a criminal, not to subject him to a fist in the stomach, nor a smack in the mouth. How was he to know that one of the two thieves was the son of a local councillor, high on crack cocaine.

  The Winstons and the Robinsons bonded more closely, although Tim Winston wouldn’t let Brad over to his house, nor Rose over to his.

  Inevitably, the police presence at the school relaxed, and the two youngsters found more than enough places to get some time to themselves.

  Nobody in Homicide believed it was over, and still they had not identified the Jane Doe, nor why she had died. The initial suspicion that Naughton and cohorts had been involved in drug importation and distribution had been put to one side. The sighting of Analyn had raised the spectre of sophisticated illegal transportation of women to brothels in England, but no proof had been found.

  To Isaac, it seemed more sinister. And now, Jenny and their unborn child. It was starting to show, and he was worried for them as well; worried for everyone, but powerless to do any more.

  Whatever the future held, it appeared that it would be Naughton, if he were the main person, to make the running. Which meant only one thing: another death.

  The only positive was the BMW.

  Warton Road, less than two miles from the Durham Arms, a patch of wasteland used as an unofficial car park, a refuse tip by others.

  Larry took one look at the burnt-out but still smouldering shell. ‘It’s the car,’ he said to Bill Ross and Wendy who had accompanied him.

  ‘No one inside?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘If there were, there wouldn’t be much left, not now.’

  ‘Anything to be gained?’ Larry asked Gordon Windsor when he arrived at the scene.

  ‘We’ll check it out, then put it on a flatbed truck, get Forensics to have a look. They might find something, but don’t expect much.’

  ***

  Holland Park had been canvassed, questions asked on the street outside Naughton’s house. The owner, the name given almost certainly false, due to a complex purchasing route through an overseas trust five years previously, had not been found.

  ‘We never met the person,’ Agnes Hepplesworth said in the comfort of her plush office in Mayfair.

  ‘There are still money laundering checks that need to be dealt with if it’s cash,’ Isaac said.

  Hepplesworth and Daughter, Solicitors, was a family concern, three generations, Agnes was the first. Seventy-five at least, a pinched face, heavily lined with wrinkles, no makeup, dressed conservatively although expensively.

  A hard woman, Wendy thought.

  ‘All the necessary requirements were dealt with. As you must understand, there is confidentiality that I need to consider.’

  Isaac had to concede the woman had a point.

  ‘Have you any knowledge of an Ian Naughton?’

  ‘The name means nothing to me. Let’s be clear here, Chief Inspector, the aspersion that my client is somehow involved in – what was it?’

  ‘Murder, three so far.’

  Isaac had stated the reason for the visit on arrival and he felt the woman was being evasive, not a good sign.

  ‘Murder, yes, I understand. However, my client is not involved. How could he be if he’s not in the country.’

  ‘Client? Male? Overseas?’

  ‘My apologies if I’ve confused you,’ Agnes Hepplesworth said. ‘I’ve never met the person or spoken to him on the phone. I assume that it is a man, but it could be a woman.’

  ‘You must have a signature on the documents?’

  ‘A complex purchase, the name on the documents is not Ian Naughton, nor is it necessar
ily the person you met at the house.’

  Agnes Hepplesworth had been obstructionist. Whether she had acted professionally or if it indicated an ulterior motive, he wasn’t sure. After the episode with Naughton, he wasn’t trusting anyone.

  ***

  Larry spent time out in Canning Town, not that the area offered any more opportunity than Challis Street and its surrounding area. But it had been the only place, apart from Holland Park, and possibly Godstone, where one of the perpetrators had been seen.

  Warren Preston hadn’t been able to tell them much, other than it was two men, but even that was flawed. Why trust a man’s death to a gang of poorly educated and unreliable black youths? It was a question that Bill Ross pondered.

  The two police officers were enjoying a curry on Barking Road; one of the only advantages of working in the area was great foods, Ross had said. Larry couldn’t disagree with him, and he intended to take advantage.

  Wendy was with the two families, Isaac was in the office, and Bridget was dealing with the paperwork, attempting to get the recalcitrant Agnes Hepplesworth to open up about what she knew.

  Checks had been made on the woman; it appeared that her company specialised in purchasers from overseas. No complaints against the solicitors, but no checking of their records had ever been carried out, although Isaac was keen for one to be done.

  ‘Can’t be done,’ Fraud Squad had told him. ‘Not without something solid to go on.’

  Larry finished his curry, drank his tea; usually a curry deserved a pint of beer to wash it down, but not today.

  Ross answered his phone; a meeting had been arranged with Preston’s gang.

  ‘Preston’s not the smartest,’ Ross said as the two men stood outside the restaurant, a cigarette in his hand, a look of longing from Larry. So far, he had kept his alcohol consumption under control and had given up smoking. Too much friction at home and at Challis Street had made the decision for him, but out at Canning Town, a more liberal attitude prevailed, with a superintendent who wasn’t always politically correct, having said what he thought of the hoodies to Ross and Larry, and not succinctly.

  Two blocks from the Durham Arms, an old Toyota. Inside the vehicle, two hoodies. Both were the same colour as Preston, the same chip on the shoulder, the same speech patterns.

  ‘You’re asking questions,’ one of them said. Ross knew him to be the second-in-command. A hierarchy existed, and the smaller of the two was the person in charge.

  ‘Are you part of the gang?’ Ross said. He wasn’t comfortable with where the four of them stood, the reason he had phoned for a patrol car to drive past the end of the road every five minutes.

  ‘Dangerous, knife you as soon as look at you,’ Ross had said back at his station. The black gangs that Larry knew well in Notting Hill were mild compared to those standing in front of them. The leader of the two, softly spoken, a scar across his left cheek, a tattoo barely visible on his neck, looked ruthless.

  His real name, not that he’d use it, was Waylon Conroy, a local born Jamaican, more intelligent than most, capable of better, but life on the edge suited him.

  Bill Ross knew it for what it was: a lost generation. And as for Conroy, a couple of GCSEs, a chance of further education, a possibility of going to university, but the youth was generationally destined for a life of crime.

  ‘You wanted to talk to us,’ Conroy said.

  ‘Where’s the Mercedes?’ Ross said.

  It seemed to Larry that Waylon Conroy and Bill Ross were acquainted; as he was with their counterparts over near Challis Street.

  ‘Safe, under lock and key. Too many villains around here.’

  ‘We’re not here to bother you,’ Larry said. ‘It’s the information that we want.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Conroy said. ‘New around here?’

  ‘He can be trusted,’ Ross said.

  ‘You were interested in the two men.’

  ‘Help us; we’ll help you.’

  ‘Trust a copper? Why should we? We didn’t kill anyone. The one in the car, not that we could see that much, wore a fancy watch on his left wrist.’

  ‘Make?’

  ‘Gold; it glinted in the light from a street light down the street. Expensive, probably a Rolex, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Any more? The weapon?’

  ‘Can’t help you there. Not English, not purchased locally.’

  The patrol car passed the end of the road. Conroy looked around. ‘You’re safe with us,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t blame us for taking precautions,’ Larry said.

  Ross lit up a cigarette, offered the packet around.

  ‘I can sell you better, half price,’ Conroy said.

  ‘The two men,’ Larry said.

  ‘We didn’t kill the old man, regardless of what you think. Nothing to be gained.’

  ‘Where is Warren Preston?’

  ‘Around.’

  Ross nudged Larry. Both men knew that the gangs were extremely sensitive, liable to act adversely if questioned too closely.

  ‘Are you trying to tell us that you didn’t kill Robinson?’ Ross said.

  ‘Sure, we took the money. We’re not fools, are we?’

  ‘I’m not so sure about the others in your gang.’

  ‘Warren Preston’s the stupidest of all.’

  ‘You took the money, did nothing, and made yourself scarce.’

  ‘Wazza, he’s vanished.’

  ‘If you didn’t do it, then who did?’

  ‘I reckon those in the car did it when they realised they’d been duped. Candy from a baby, that easy it was.’

  The man who gave you the money. Describe him?’

  ‘Posh, looked as though he came from money.’

  ‘Look? How can you tell that?’ Larry asked.

  ‘The same way you do. The way he stood, his speech, the manicured nails, the Breitling watch, not a fifty-pound fake with a Seiko inside.’

  ‘I hope they don’t find you,’ Ross said. ‘You wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Around here? We’re invincible,’ Conroy said as he got back into the car.

  The patrol car passed again. Larry and Ross settled back into their vehicle.

  ‘I could do with a pint,’ Ross said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Larry replied. ‘Did they do it?’

  ‘Probably. Life has no value to them. Robinson was a damn fool, nobody comes down here by choice unless they have little regard for their safety.’

  ‘If they didn’t do it, they’re dead; if they did and got a good look at the two men, they’ll still be dead,’ Larry said.

  Chapter 14

  Isaac decided that too much time had been spent out at Canning Town, and whereas the death of Hector Robinson could be relevant, it was unclear why.

  Jane Doe and Janice Robinson were close to home; Bill Ross could deal with Janice’s father, spend more time with the gangs, try and understand why they would have killed Hector Robinson, money aside; denials from them were not believed, and it was a typical gang slaying.

  Jim Robinson had identified his father, spent time with his brother, and had been returned to Maidstone Prison.

  Tim Winston was still in the family home, just. As Maeve Winston, who had found out the truth about her husband and Janice Robinson after a late-night tearful confession from Tim, had admitted to Wendy, ‘I suspected something, but not Gladys’s daughter.’

  Maeve said that she had always wanted Tim, but he had wanted to play the field, as all young men did. She had wished for the white wedding, not out of convention, but because she was still pure. The reason that Tim had wanted her, Maeve said.

  ‘Pure and chaste, that’s what they want, all of them. Even Hector, not that he got it.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Wendy asked.

  They were in the front room of the Winstons’ home; one forty-five in the afternoon. Maeve Winston had called her for a chat. Tim was at work, and Rose wasn’t due home for another two hours.


  ‘It’s about Janice,’ Maeve said. ‘I knew she was in that awful bedsit, selling herself to any drunk or lecher who wanted her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Before Jim had started getting himself into trouble, and Janice was still innocent, I used to meet with Gladys. Not often, once every couple of months.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘He didn’t like it, but he knew. We were going through a rough patch, money-wise, not the marriage. Sure, Tim had wandering eyes, but I kept him under control.’

  ‘You don’t seem the sort of person to keep anyone under control,’ Wendy said.

  ‘There was no need for him to look elsewhere. If you think that he’s the great lover, you’d be wrong. It’s a pretence, him and Janice.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Wendy said as she picked up a chocolate biscuit from the plate in her lap.

  ‘Gladys used to confide in me, tell me about her family and her fears for Janice.’

  ‘From her father?’

  ‘Don’t always believe Gladys. She always saw things that weren’t there.’

  ‘Janice was abused by some of the men that her mother had in the house from time to time.’

  ‘You’re aware that Gladys was an escort?’

  ‘Is it relevant?’

  ‘I don’t know, only that Hector didn’t want to be reminded of it, not when they argued, and she’d bring up as to how beautiful she had been and what she could have made of her life, the offers she received.’

  ‘Where’s this heading?’

  ‘Tim, I want to leave him, once Rose finishes school, goes to university, but I’m not sure about her choice in Brad.’

  ‘I thought you were alright with it.’

  ‘I was, but on reflection, his family, their history. He can’t be untouched by it. Sure, for now he’s fine, but he’s still young.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s up to you. Rose is nearly sixteen; it’s not you that she’ll be listening to.’

  ‘Up north, there’s a job I’m qualified for. I could go there, take Rose.’

  ‘Maeve, you can’t take Rose, even if she wants to go, not now. It’s too late for that. You should have done something years before.’