The Silent Man: A British Detective Crime Thriller (The Harvey Stone Crime Thriller Series Book 1)

by J. D. Weston

“It would be a damn sight easier,” he said, and he finished the last of his drink.

  He placed the glass down on the bedside table when the shrill bell in the old telephone began its song.

  It would be Alison. He knew it would be. She would have waited until the evening when he got home so she could call up and berate him for turning up unannounced, for upsetting Harriet, and, more importantly, ruining her birthday.

  He let the phone ring off but counted the rings.

  Eight.

  If she called again, she would wait longer. It was exactly what she used to do when they were together. The first ring was a test call to see if he would dare to pick up. She would have more patience for the next call. But she would also have that annoying superior tone. The third call, if he answered, would be her venting her wrath. It would begin with, ‘How dare you?’ and it would end with a threat, ‘If you ever want to see Harriet again…’, and there would be many verbal missiles thrown his way in between, ‘Do you know how you made me feel?’ or, ‘Do you understand the implications of your actions?’. That was always a good one. It always made him smile. Of course he understood the implications of his actions. He always understood the implications of his actions. Whether or not he gave a hoot about the implications or considered them of less value than the consequences of not doing the action in the first place was another question.

  The phone rang a second time.

  “Eight to beat, Alison.”

  He could picture her strutting around her brand-new kitchen with the cordless phone. She would, of course, insist on adding in audible effects to the berating. The subtle banging of saucepans on the stove was enough, in her opinion, to let him know that she was still a mother and had to look after their child.

  Six rings.

  But, hell, could she cook. It was one of things he’d loved about her in the first place. The way she could take a simple dish and turn it into something extraordinary. She would know which of the spices to use from the little pots inside the top-left kitchen cupboard. She would know which herbs to cut from her little herb garden that would bring out the flavours in the meat.

  Seven rings.

  She would even warm the plates, a simple thing many people overlooked in Myers’ opinion. ‘Hot food should be served on hot plates’. That’s what she used to say. She would smile back then. She would smile and hum to herself as she danced from cooker to counter, working her magic.

  But right then, with the phone wedged between her cheek and her shoulder, there would be no humming. Her rage would be building.

  Eight rings.

  He considered picking up the handset but thought better of it. The day had been hard enough.

  Nine rings.

  Maybe he should start by wishing her a happy birthday? Kill her with kindness, as they say.

  There was no tenth ring.

  Another day maybe?

  He exhaled again, long and deep. He’d caught himself doing it more and more of late. It was something he’d seen people do as they sat opposite him in the interview room. It was something they did when they were tired of the questions, tired of his persistence. They just wanted to be left alone.

  He knew how they felt. He wondered if he saw a suspect doing the same thing again in an interview room if he would empathise.

  “Let’s take five minutes, eh?”

  Sadly, life didn’t work like that. A five-minute break was five minutes they would have to conjure up another lie. He would be five minutes further from breaking them. Unless it was the silent man, the man who had not uttered a single word in an entire twenty-four-hour period. The man who had not even raised an eyebrow, altered his expression, or fidgeted in an entire day.

  Myers hated the fact that the man had won. He hated the fact that he had helped Allenby push him further from the case. Yet, somehow, somewhere inside Myers, there was admiration for him. He had a resilience that, in the eyes of the law, held him innocent. Yet deep down, there was something much more there.

  The phone rang for the third time.

  One ring.

  “Sod it.”

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Alison, you have to stop this. You can’t keep calling just to vent your frustrations at me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Fox?”

  With two women controlling every aspect of his life, Myers had little room for a third. Especially an annoying little know-it-all fresh from the countryside.

  “You didn’t come back to the station, sir.”

  “I, erm, had a late one at the garage.”

  “Miles Stein’s, sir?”

  “Yes. I haven’t been back long.” Myers heard himself mumbling and doubted Fox understood a word of what he had said.

  “Did you find anything? You didn’t call in.”

  “No, I, erm…there wasn’t much to see. I’ll tell you about it in the morning. Good night, Fox.”

  “Wait, sir.”

  He heard her suck in a lungful of air in anticipation of his voice. He imagined her clinging to hopes that he’d show a little interest. He wished he could show interest. Maybe that was it? Maybe he just wasn’t interested in the case. Carver’s words had helped him resign himself to the fact that it was an unsolvable case and not worth the effort.

  “What is it, Fox?”

  “You asked for a name, sir. The man who runs Regency Leather Goods Limited.”

  He sighed, not wanting to even hear the name. He knew he would have to follow it up. She would have added it to the report already.

  “Go on.”

  “Rashid Al Sheik, sir. He’s a councillor for the Labour party in East London.”

  “Rashid Al Sheik? Are you sure?”

  “Positive, sir. He’s a silent partner of Regency. I requested his details from Companies House. Do you need his address?”

  “No,” said Myers, and he rallied with the name in his mind. “No, I know where he lives. Thank you, Fox.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The River Lea began in the calm and serene Chiltern Hills and wound its way across country into East London where it spilt its tainted and polluted burden into the River Thames. Harvey knew it to be tainted and polluted. He knew the names of at least three men whose rotting bodies poisoned the water.

  And he knew the places on the riverside that were accessible and hidden.

  Hackney Marshes was such a place.

  He drew his motorcycle up beside a cluster of trees that wasn’t thick enough to be a forest yet were numerous enough that only those on the river itself could see what he was about to do, and there wasn’t a boat in sight.

  “Off,” he said, and he held his bike steady for the man to climb off.

  “Oh God, thanks, fella,” said the man, straightening out the stiffness of the ride from his back. He grinned. “They nearly had me then.”

  Harvey kicked down the bike stand and removed his helmet. He hung it from the handlebar and removed his gloves while the man spoke.

  “What are we doing here?” he said. “You could have dropped me at the pub. I would have bought you a pint to say thanks.”

  Harvey punched the man square in the face and felt his nose break beneath his knuckles. The man doubled over and let the blood fill his hands. He stepped away from Harvey toward the riverside.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  Harvey hit him again and knocked him off balance. He stumbled backward and fell to the ground. Then, seeing Harvey’s advance, he crawled away toward the water.

  “Who are you?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “What do you want? I haven’t got anything. I haven’t done anything.”

  Harvey dragged him to his feet and held his face close to his own.

  “Donny Cartwright,” he said. “Where is he?”

  The man looked confused.

  “Eh? Donny? How the bloody hell should I know?”

  Harvey launched him backwards further and the man crawled to the water’s edge.

 
“It’s his wedding day,” said the man. “I haven’t seen him. I wasn’t invited. Honest, you can check.”

  Harvey leaned over him and the man crawled back another metre until his hands found the shallow river edge.

  “How do you know him?” asked Harvey.

  But the man just stammered. Harvey took a single step into the shallow water and then dragged the man into the river. He tried to scramble to his feet, but in his panic, he fell again, and Harvey caught him by his throat. He pushed the man’s face beneath the water and held him there. The man’s arms and legs thrashed, and he fought against Harvey’s hold until Harvey lifted him free and held his head up by his hair.

  The man coughed up a mouthful of water and mud streamed across his face. He fought to regain his breath and then opened his eyes.

  “How do you know, Donny?” said Harvey.

  The man lingered for a second too long and Harvey plunged him back under. The thrashing resumed, and then Harvey felt the man tap him on the arms, as a wrestler might tap out of a hold.

  Harvey raised him up.

  Once more, the man spat and coughed. His eyes were red from fright and he clung to Harvey’s hands, squeezing them hard.

  “Please,” he said. “No more.”

  “Donny?”

  “I work with him,” said the man, and coughed again. He took deep breaths and seemed to calm down with each word he spoke.

  “You work for John Cartwright?”

  “No. No, I don’t,” he said. “Me and Donny, we’re partners.”

  “Partners in what? Donny doesn’t own a garage.”

  “No, the garage is mine.”

  “You’re Miles Stein?”

  “Yes,” said the man, nodding. “Donny and I went into business together.”

  “Doing what?”

  The man paused and Harvey held him under for a few moments just to remind him that talking was a far better choice.

  “Booze,” he coughed when Harvey pulled him back up. He heaved and a sickly combination of mud and river water ran from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. “We import booze.”

  “Who for?”

  Harvey prepared to dunk him again.

  “No. No, I’ll talk,” he said.

  Harvey waited.

  “We only just started it. Donny met someone who said they needed alcohol on demand.”

  “On demand?”

  “Yeah. To order. You know?”

  “Not really.”

  “Unlicensed parties and that sort of thing. Private stuff. Wealthy blokes.”

  “So, Donny gets the booze. Where do you come in?”

  “He needed somewhere to keep it.”

  “Why couldn’t he keep it at the Cartwright warehouse?”

  The man agonised over the answer. His mouth hung open ready to talk but his brain wouldn’t allow the words to be spoken.

  Until Harvey dunked him again.

  “Drugs,” he said when Harvey pulled him free of the murky water. “It wasn’t just booze.”

  “Donny imported drugs?”

  “Yeah. It was hidden in the cases. Donny said he knew a bloke on border force that could help us get it through.”

  “What drugs?”

  “Cocaine. But listen, I just stored it. That’s all I did. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You said you were partners.”

  “Well, yeah, but…”

  Harvey dunked him once then pulled him out before the thrashing began.

  “I need the truth, Miles. Where are the drugs now?”

  “I don’t know. We had a break in.”

  Harvey dragged him up from the water and stared at the man eye to eye.

  “Donny’s wife was killed today. Now tell me where the drugs are and who they were for. Nobody knows we’re here, Miles.”

  It was Harvey’s final words that tipped Miles over the edge. His face twisted as he fought back the tears and his bottom lip began to shudder. If it weren’t for the river water, Harvey would have guessed he was wetting himself anyway.

  “The drugs, Miles.”

  “We got rid of them,” he said, and the honesty broke him. The relief of betraying Donny shattered any strength the man had left, and he flopped in Harvey’s arms.

  “Where?”

  “Julia said something to Donny. I don’t know what she said. But after that, Donny wanted to pull out of the deal. Honest, that’s all I know. They broke into my garage and smashed everything, but Donny had already sold them to someone else. He said he didn’t want to do business with them anymore.” He clung to Harvey’s hands. “Please, you have to believe me.”

  “Miles, Donny is gone. Someone has got him.”

  It was like time had been paused. Miles stared into space, his mouth ajar.

  “I need to know who the drugs were meant for. I need names, Miles. I need them now.”

  “Sam,” said Miles, as Harvey shook him to his senses. “I don’t know the last name. Donny used to go there. That’s where the deals were struck. Honest, I never went there.”

  “Where, Miles? I need answers.”

  “The Docklands. It’s an apartment in the Docklands. One of those swanky ones that overlooks the river. I know the address.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Myers could smell the alcohol on his own breath, even with both the driver and passenger windows open. Fox hadn’t had to give him the address of Rashid Al Sheikh; it was an address Myers had been to many times, but he had never once been invited inside.

  Three times, Myers had submitted an application for a warrant, and three times, Allenby had denied the request, forcing Myers to work harder to get the proof he needed that Sheikh was involved somehow in the murder of those girls.

  There had been six men killed over the course of a few months and all six of them had been on the sex offenders list and five of them had served time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But the connection didn’t stop there. Every one of those men were connected to the untouchable Rashid Al Sheik.

  Well, he wouldn’t be untouchable for long.

  He pulled his car into Vicarage Lane in Chigwell and slowed to a crawl. The house he was looking for was a gated property and had at least six or seven bedrooms. The lower half of the house was neat brickwork and the upper section was black, timber beams in-filled with white painted render. It had class, of that Myers was sure. There were two black Range Rovers on the driveway and a smaller BMW that Myers knew belonged to Sheikh’s wife. It was the dying hours of the daylight and a few of the lights were switched on inside.

  Myers stopped the car beneath a tree and turned off the engine. He’d knocked before on many occasions, and each time, he had been sent away. To knock again would be pointless. But to catch Sheikh leaving or returning might give Myers the opportunity to rile the ostentatious prick enough for him to say something he’d regret.

  The opportunity came sooner than Myers imagined.

  “The rubbish is collected on Mondays, detective,” said a voice. A familiar voice. “I wouldn’t park there too long, or they might mistake your car for my recycling. Perhaps you should move along?”

  Rashid Al Sheikh stepped into view wearing a trendy looking tracksuit and gleaming white trainers. He held an MP3 player and pulled the headphones from his ears, then wrapped the cord around the player while waiting for Myers to say something.

  “Regency Leather Goods Limited,” said Myers. “Do you know it?”

  “I should do. I own it,” he said. Then added, “Mostly.”

  “We found two of your bags, Mr Sheikh. Louis Vuitton rips offs.”

  “Good for you. Keep them. Maybe your daughter would like one for Christmas?”

  He nearly told the man that she already had one, but that would only feed his ego.

  “Is that what you came here to tell me, Detective Myers?” He laughed and made to walk back to his house.

  “One of them was fourteen,” said Myers. “Fourteen years old.”

  Sheikh opened
his mouth to talk, but Myers had more to say.

  “She was raped multiple times, Mr Sheikh, by multiple men.”

  “Raped?” He looked surprised. “How do you know she was raped? These white girls want more than children’s dolls, Detective Myers. Perhaps she knew how to party.”

  “Charlene Briggs,” said Myers. “Does the name ring any bells?”

  He shook his head and offered his lower lip in denial.

  “She was found dead a few weeks ago.”

  “Detective Myers, I don’t know where you’re going with this-”

  “She didn’t deserve that, Sheikh.”

  “Perhaps she made some bad decisions? You know these kids as well as I do. They think they know what’s good for them.” He stepped closer to the car and leaned on the door. “But they don’t. They don’t know anything, do they?”

  “Amir Farooqi,” said Myers, and stared dead ahead along the empty road of millionaires. He turned to stare up at Sheikh. “Does that name ring any bells?”

  Sheikh was silent, his face expressionless.

  “We found him in his home. His face had been burned off with a blow torch. In fact, the only way we knew it was him was because of the semen of his we found on his clothes,” said Myers. “And on Charlene Briggs’ body.”

  Sheikh met him eye to eye.

  “It means nothing.”

  “What does? The semen or the name?”

  “He was my cousin.”

  “We know.”

  “That doesn’t mean he raped her.”

  “A fourteen-year-old?” said Myers. “A fourteen-year-old isn’t old enough to have consensual sex. That can only mean one thing.”

  “Is that all you have to say?” said Sheikh, and once more, he made to head toward his house.

  “Faisal Kahn,” called Myers, enjoying the balance being in his own favour for once. “We found him pinned to a tree.”

  “The name isn’t familiar.”

  “Oh, really? That’s strange. Because he worked for you. You gave him a job when he got out of prison, and his father, Mohamed Khan, is one of your best friends. I have some photos of you together. Would you like to see?” Myers fumbled blindly for his file, but Sheikh relented.

  “So, I know his father,” said Sheikh, and screwed his face up in dismissal. “That doesn’t mean anything. Is this all you have, Detective Myers? Does this amount to anything?”