DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You gave her money.’

  ‘I did. It seemed the decent thing to do.’

  ‘Mr Rees, decent and honourable are two words that wouldn’t describe you,’ Isaac said. ‘What we believe happened in Iraq was that you went rogue, exceeded your orders and indiscriminately killed innocent people.’

  ‘It was a war, innocent people die.’

  ‘Collateral damage maybe, but for you to be drummed out of the military is a fair indicator that you care little for life, and that murder comes easily. Why didn’t you have sex with Janice Robinson before killing her? Amanda Upton? Why the grave at Kensal Green? It was an assassination of a woman who apart from her choice of a profession doesn’t seem to have committed any grievous crime. Who were you protecting? Whose orders were you following?’

  ‘This is ludicrous,’ Jameson said.

  Isaac chose to ignore him. ‘Ian Naughton called you Gareth when the two of you waylaid a gang of hoodies in Canning Town. Why that gang? How did you know that Waylon Conroy was more intelligent than most gang members, more likely to acquiesce and to kill Hector Robinson?’

  ‘I wasn’t with an Ian Naughton. I don’t even know the name,’ Rees said.

  ‘You know him, we know that. What name he uses at other times we don’t know, but we met him at a house in Holland Park. He was in the company of Analyn, as you were in Godstone. Witnesses will testify that you are the man in the village, and both Inspector Hill and I know what Analyn looks like. The BMW?’

  ‘What BMW?’

  ‘The BMW in the garage in Godstone and a burnt-out wreck on a vacant block of land in Canning Town are one and the same. Mr Rees, I put it to you that you can act as a rational and decent human being, but as a result of actions you have committed in extremely dangerous situations, you have another side to you.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Jameson said. ‘Aspersions have no weight in law, any more than amateur psychology of my client’s mental well-being.’

  ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder doesn’t seem to be the issue here, but you may have had a prior condition that was invaluable in the military. Not that they should have considered you, and they are not willing to let us know, but with a murder charge, they may be forced to release those details.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Rees said. ‘The Official Secrets Act will keep whatever I and others did under wraps.’

  Isaac knew it was true. He had had experience with the secret service before; government-sanctioned assassinations to protect a politician and his indiscretion with a soap opera star when they were both young, a shared son. The son adopted, his later conversion to extremist Islam making him a threat to the government, would have had added power to his voice if his father had become known. In the end, people had died, including the star. Isaac didn’t want to have to deal with those who operated in the shadows.

  The interview had gone badly, Isaac had to concede. He had tried rapid-fire questioning of Rees, hoping the man would have become confused and blurt out the truth, making a statement contrary to the known facts, indicating knowledge of a person or a location that placed him at a crime scene, but it hadn’t worked. Jacob Jameson wanted the man released; Isaac did not.

  Gareth Rees, a self-confessed killer under military orders, a killer under the orders of Ian Naughton, whoever he was, or of his own volition, was led down to the holding cells at Challis Street. The team had less than twenty-four hours to come up with more substantive evidence, a possible forty-eight if they could provide proof that the charge against the man for the murder of Sean Garvey was likely to result in a conviction.

  ***

  It was a tense time in Homicide, and Isaac was concerned that the two days he had promised to Jenny before he could focus time on her would not be enough.

  Gwen Pritchard was brought back into the team; she would be working with Wendy and Bill Ross out at New Barn Street, looking for people who could have seen the shooter fire the shot, people with smartphones taking selfies, unaware of what was in the background.

  Larry was going to follow up on where Gareth Rees was arrested and try to find his home address. Bridget was still trying to find out Rees’s mental state from the military, as well as trace the movements of the car that he had been driving, a rental hired by him for the day of Garvey’s death.

  Isaac wanted to know how Rees would have known that Sean Garvey would leave the building where he lived and walk down the street, not that he got far. The phone that Rees had been carrying did not have Garvey’s number on it, which led to two conclusions. The first was that Rees had staked out the area on the off-chance that Garvey would come out, which seemed unlikely. It wasn’t the best area, and a well-dressed white male would have stood out, and curious people would have started to ask questions. The second and more probable was that he had used a ‘burner’, the slang for a throwaway phone favoured by criminals. Used for a day, thrown in a bin at the end of it. Phones were cheap enough and monitoring them, even with the number, was a laborious chore.

  As for Isaac, he had to take a couple of hours, go with Jenny to the gynaecologist. His responsibility with Homicide told him that he shouldn’t, but his heart told him that he had to. After that, the house in Holland Park where he and Larry had first met Ian Naughton and Analyn.

  Wendy phoned the Robinsons and the Winstons back in their respective houses after the threat level had been reduced since the arrest of Gareth Rees. She also called Gabbi Gaffney, told her that her first husband was in custody and her help had been invaluable. The woman was not pleased to hear of the arrest, and there was a sense of fear in her voice.

  Meredith Temple had been updated, but still Wendy told her to be careful.

  Ian Naughton and Analyn remained at large. Gareth Rees had not admitted to knowing either, but he had definitely been in Godstone with one, in Canning Town with the other, but in English law a man was innocent until proven guilty. And there was no indisputable proof, only a large number of events leading to that conclusion.

  Isaac honoured his time with Jenny. There were no problems, and the birth was due in six weeks, long enough to move houses and at least fix up the baby’s bedroom. He had even taken Jenny to lunch and then driven her home.

  It was just after three in the afternoon when he drew up outside the house in Holland Park. The estate agent had since let the home to a family, the husband transferred to his company’s head office in London.

  Inside the house, little had changed apart from the family’s attempts to make it their own.

  ‘It’s only for a short time until we find a place of our own,’ the wife said.

  ‘You’re aware of why I’m here?’ Isaac said. He was on his own; everyone in Homicide was busy, and besides the threat that Naughton would have possibly posed was no longer present.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I met a man and a woman here. He was English, she was from the Philippines.’

  ‘They’re not here now,’ the woman said as she knelt down to pat a small dog that wanted attention.

  ‘I know, and it’s unlikely they’ll come near here. After we had been here, they soon disappeared. The problem is finding them.’

  ‘I can’t help. The place was clean and freshly painted when we moved in, no sign of the previous occupants.’

  ‘No letters addressed to a previous tenant?’

  ‘None.’

  Isaac took a seat, looked around him. It was a lot bigger than the house that he and Jenny had just purchased, but Holland Park was a step up from Willesden; it was the suburb of the wealthy and famous, the haunt of celebrities and young upwardly mobile high-flying currency traders. Isaac hadn’t the heart to tell the woman that two blocks away Spanish John lived in another equally impressive house. She looked a gentle woman, the sort of person who saw the best in people, who had never experienced life on the edge. Yet now she was living in a house that was inextricably linked with violent deaths. Isaac also knew that the estate agent, when he had shown the house, had not mentioned t
he police interest in the place.

  ‘The two people I met here are persons of interest in a murder investigation,’ Isaac said. The truth couldn’t be avoided, although he wasn’t sure where the conversation was heading.

  ‘Did they kill anyone?’

  ‘The woman, no. The man we don’t think is a murderer either. We already have someone for two of the murders, although one murder is not yet solved. It’s proof we need, and the man, he used the name of Ian Naughton, is probably behind the deaths. Yet again, we aren’t sure of a motive.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have moved in if I had known.’

  ‘No murders were committed here, you’re safe on that score. However, a cryptic message led us to this house, which is bizarre. If the people here were involved in wrongdoing, why advertise themselves.’

  ‘The woman in the cemetery? I heard about it on the television.’

  ‘Yes. We know who she is, but not why she died.’

  ‘This Naughton?’

  ‘We don’t think so. Amanda Upton did not sell herself in England, not from what we can tell. Any sign of women in the house?’

  ‘Freshly painted. None that I can see.’

  ‘Why this house?’ Isaac said.

  ‘A test?’

  ‘That’s what we were thinking, an attempt to ensure that the person who deciphered the clues was of suitable calibre, but that’s about it. And why was Naughton in this house with the woman?’

  ‘Maybe he knew who was coming. Just wanted to be sure it was that person. Maybe they were watching at the cemetery.’

  ‘If they were, they would have known that the police were coming. It’s more than that.’

  Isaac left the house, realising that discussing the case with an open mind had raised other possibilities as to why they had been directed to the house, and why Naughton had not moved out immediately.

  Chapter 28

  Gareth Rees had been picked up close to Kingston upon Thames, nine miles to the south-west of Challis Street Police Station, a street within walking distance of Hampton Court, one of the Royal Palaces in greater London, a residence of Henry VIII in the early sixteenth century.

  Larry had visited the impressive palace and its extensive grounds with his parents when he’d been a child, and with his wife and children two years previously.

  As impressive as it was, it was the area close to where Rees had been arrested that was of interest. Portsmouth Road fronted the River Thames on its eastern side. It was a busy road with a path on one side of it, a popular walking track of a weekend. The other side of the road was lined with blocks of apartments, most of them upmarket and expensive, which didn’t surprise Larry as Kingston upon Thames, close enough to London to commute, was also distant enough not to be part of the hurried life of the metropolis.

  Gareth Rees probably wasn’t a name that would mean anything to the locals, nor would Peter Hood. So near and yet so far. Rees had managed to live in obscurity, and he wasn’t the sort of person to cause trouble where he lived.

  In Canning Town and up near Challis Street Police Station, he was a killer, but down in Kingston upon Thames, Larry knew that he would find a different person. But where? That was the problem.

  A couple of uniforms had photos of the man, and they were stopping whoever they could, knocking on doors. Rees was in the cells, and the clock was counting down.

  Wendy was the expert at finding people, Larry knew that, and her ability to think like the person she was looking for was invaluable. But she was up in Canning Town looking for proof that Rees had fired the shot that had killed Sean Garvey.

  Opposite where Rees had been stopped, a gated development. Discreet, out of sight, not easily accessible, the sort of place that ensured anonymity, an environment that would suit a man who wanted to remain unknown.

  Larry stood at the entrance to the development, pressed the button for one of the houses inside. He wasn’t specific as to which one; he only needed entry. It was a long shot, short on deduction but hopefully longer on luck. A hunch, and even then, it could have been that Rees had only pulled off Portsmouth Road into the side street to stop for a drink at the pub or to buy cigarettes.

  The uniforms continued waylaying people, some crossing the road to avoid them, others stopping to say that they didn’t recognise the man, or they had left their reading glasses at home, or the face looked familiar, but offering no more.

  ‘Detective Inspector Hill,’ Larry said when the second button he had pressed was answered.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the reply.

  An instinctive fear of a police officer, Larry knew, the reason people didn’t want to get involved.

  ‘I know that. We’re trying to find where a Gareth Rees lives.’

  ‘Come in if you want, but the name means nothing.’

  Larry didn’t expect the name to. A neat three-bedroom house, a large dog that was overly friendly, and a short man, his grey hair and stoop showed that he was probably retired, and the crumpled shirt that he lived on his own. Who walked who, Larry couldn’t be sure, but he had his money on the dog.

  Larry stood at the front door and showed the photo of Rees. ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Not to speak to. Is he in trouble?’

  ‘He’s under arrest. Are you saying you’ve seen him?’

  ‘Going in and out, but he doesn’t speak, waves sometimes.’

  ‘His car?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He changes them all the time. I thought he was a car dealer, but as I said, I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Where have you seen him?’

  ‘Two houses down, the green door.’

  Larry phoned Isaac as he walked to the neat and tidy house with the green door. It was clear that no one was at home.

  Isaac was on the way; Larry would wait until he arrived. As he waited, he took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. As much as he had told his wife that he had quit, the occasional one gave him respite, a chance for normality. As with his dramatically curtailed alcohol consumption, the need never went away, and at times, good or bad, or as in this case, expectant, a cigarette provided a necessary distraction. He phoned the uniforms, told them to cease their questioning and to join him at the house, and to bring him a hamburger from the fast food place down the road.

  The man came over, the dog alongside him. ‘I’m taking the dog for a walk. Anything else you want?’

  Larry took a phone out of his pocket, scrolled through the photo gallery. ‘Tell me to stop when you recognise anyone.’

  The dog, sensing that the walk was to be delayed, sat down on the ground. Even though it was big and lumbering, Larry could tell that it had some innate sense, a modicum of intelligence. Not like the dog he had had as a child that would run across a busy road if it saw a cat loitering on the other side. Somehow, the animal had lived till fourteen. Now, the family had a cat, the legacy of the reclusive mother of a murdered man that Wendy had befriended. Before the woman died, she had promised to look after her multitude of cats, Wendy taking one, him taking another, the remainder eventually going to good homes.

  ‘That one,’ the man said.

  ‘Are you sure? Anyone else?’

  ‘He wasn’t sociable, but I remember her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was three, maybe four months ago. I was outside of the house, washing my car. She walked past me, said hello. Who is she?’

  ‘A regular visitor?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. Probably. I’m not a busybody, and if she came over, then that was up to him and her.’

  ‘A good attitude to adopt,’ Larry said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Very well. More than once, but that’s all I know. And I only spoke to her the once, never to him.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘He rented the place. I never knew.’

  ‘The estate agent?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Isaac arrived outside the house twenty minutes later. The estate agent had been found by the uniform
s who had been into a couple of agencies nearby.

  Larry knocked on the door of Rees’s house again. There was no reply. Donning nitrile gloves, Isaac and Larry entered through the front door. The estate agent wanted to enter as well, stating that he had a responsibility to the tenant, but Larry blocked his way.

  ‘It’s a homicide,’ Isaac said, meaning that he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the agent’s concern, only to prove that the house was Rees’s and to see what clues could be found inside.

  The neighbour’s identification of Amanda Upton had come as something as a shock, and from what had been gained from him so far, she had not popped in for a cup of tea but had spent the night at the house. Which raised questions as to why? Gareth Rees, as had been seen at Challis Street, was a decent-looking man, with a degree of wealth, but not to the extent that Amanda Upton’s clients usually had.

  Either it was a genuine romance or Rees had been paying, or there was another reason for her presence in the house.

  Outside, on the small road inside the gated development, the uniforms kept the neighbour and the estate agent at a distance, ensured that the dog didn’t make his mark on the small front garden.

  Larry took the room to his left on entering; Isaac the right. The house was in good condition, no rubbish lying around, and in the kitchen at the rear, no dirty dishes in the sink, no sign of recent cooking. In the fridge, a milk carton, some cheese, a packaged pizza to put in the oven. Whatever Rees was, he wasn’t a gourmet chef.

  Larry was the first to climb the stairs, looking first in the bathroom, confirming that it was a single man who lived there, a toothbrush and toothpaste in a small cup, a couple of rolls of toilet paper to one side of the toilet. None of the obvious womanly touches, no hairdryer or makeup, no towels stacked neatly. The room was functional, fit for its purpose.

  In the first bedroom, Isaac, who had joined Larry, found a desk and chair, a laptop on top of the desk, its lid folded down.

  If Amanda Upton had been in the house, then her fingerprints, as well as Rees’s, might be found. He phoned Gordon Windsor, asked two of his people from the crime scene team to get down to Kingston upon Thames as soon as possible.