‘Have you checked Stewart’s accommodation yet,’ Isaac asked.
‘Not yet,’ Wendy replied.
‘Then you’d better do it today. I want an arrest on Friday, not surveillance. And besides, where are these two men now?’
‘They’ve not been seen for the last few days,’ Larry replied. ‘We assume they’re lying low.’
‘Which means they may not be at the pub on Friday.’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘Okay, check out Stewart’s flat and get some fingerprints.’
Wendy and Larry left the office soon after. Stewart’s flat, they knew, was in a tenement building close to Notting Hill, not far from the expensive houses in Holland Park. However, as they knew from the address, there was nothing fancy about Stewart’s place of residence. It was definitely downmarket, and for a man who had supposedly been paid well to transport heroin and cocaine, there was little to show for his efforts. The flat was on the third floor, the lift did not work, and Wendy was puffing after the climb. Two of Gordon Windsor’s team had accompanied the two police officers. A uniform was already standing on duty outside the door and not enjoying himself. ‘I don’t go much for his neighbours,’ the policeman said.
‘Giving you trouble?’ Larry asked.
‘Scum from God knows where. It’s the kids who hurl abuse at me. They know I can’t retaliate.’
Larry could sympathise. Where Stewart lived was low income, full of welfare recipients with little chance at the big game. Most of the young children would be on the street and into crime soon enough; a fair proportion would become members of gangs, menacing society, trading drugs. Statistically, Larry knew, between five and ten per cent would be dead before their twentieth birthday.
Wendy was in the flat with the CSIs. A small television stood in one corner, an old chair had been placed six feet away from it. The kitchen was compact, with one of the cupboard doors hanging haphazardly on its hinges. In the sink, there were still some dirty dishes.
‘Not much to look at,’ Grant Meston, one of the CSIs, said.
‘His housekeeping is no worse than mine,’ Wendy replied. The place felt eerie to her, but she did not mention it. The flat may have been unloved, and definitely not desirable, but it had been the residence of a man, not a torso dumped in a canal.
‘There’s plenty of prints,’ Meston said.
‘Stewart’s?’
‘The most reliable will be in the bathroom: toothbrush, razor. And from what we can see, he lived here on his own; no sign of a woman.’
Rose Denning, Meston’s assistant, was in the bedroom. She called out, ‘No woman in here.’
Wendy looked through the door of the bedroom. A double bed, its headrest broken, a sheet crumpled and pulled back.
‘No action in here,’ Rose said.
‘How do you know?’ Wendy asked.
‘Look at the sheet. One side is more crumpled than the other.’
‘Both sides look well used to me.’
‘They’ve not been changed for a while. Mind you, I don’t think many women would want to come up here, do you?’
Wendy had to agree, but they were not there to discuss Stewart’s love life. They were there to obtain his fingerprints and to check out the flat. Larry looked around the main room. He opened the doors of a sideboard. Inside he found some ganja, almost certainly supplied by Rasta Joe. There was no sign of heroin or cocaine. On a table, there was a photo of a woman. She looked old enough to be Stewart’s mother. It was known that Stewart had come from Liverpool and his mother was still alive. A local detective had dealt with the difficult task of informing her that her son was dead.
‘There’s not much here,’ Meston said.
‘Fingerprints?’ Larry asked.
‘Enough. We’ll isolate Stewart’s and Pinto’s at the warehouse.’
Another policeman was left guarding Stewart’s flat as the team left. Crime scene tape had been applied to the door, but Larry and Wendy knew that as soon as there was no police presence, the flat would be vandalised.
***
‘It’s Stewart’s head,’ Gordon Windsor, the CSE, said over the phone.
‘Arms and legs?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not at the warehouse, although Meston’s working on the fingerprints from Stewart’s flat.’
‘What else can you tell us about the head?’
‘Bullet through the brain.’
‘That killed him?’
‘Yes.’
Isaac knew that Pinto’s confession had been one hundred per cent accurate. Isaac could see that it was an easy route for someone with an addiction to become involved with serious crime. He had a friend at school who after smoking some hash had become addicted, and ended up on the street with a dirty needle and heroin. Isaac remembered trying hash once, the result of a stupid dare at school. He had seen no benefit in it. After that, he had smoked cigarettes for a few months, but even that had stopped soon enough. To him, some people, Pinto as an example, although his vice was gambling, are susceptible to addiction, others are not.
Pinto’s bail application was due to be heard. The charge for drug trafficking remained in place.
Katrina Hatcher had been busy doing her homework and had compiled an extensive list of precedences as to why her client should be released on bail.
Isaac was aware of the bail hearing, scheduled for the following Tuesday. Unless there were reasons to the contrary, he would attend, but would not make an impassioned plea for bail to be refused. Pinto was unlikely to cause trouble, he had no prior convictions, and he would return to live with his parents.
The garbage skip in Bloomfield Street had been removed and taken to Forensics. Three of the department’s juniors had been given the task of methodically emptying it. It had been outside the house in Bloomfield Street for builder’s rubble, not as a local tip, but that was what it had become. The three CSIs stood inside the skip, masks on their faces to minimise the smell of the contents: old bricks, wood with nails still protruding, rotten food, and dog faeces. One of the juniors had taken umbrage at the task, but Rose Denning had taken him aside and given him a good talking to; told him that she had had her fair share of unpleasant jobs when she had first joined the department, but now she was involved out at crime scenes. The junior went back to his job, and found the plastic bag ten minutes later.
Once it was removed from the skip, the Forensics team checked it out. Inside there was some blood, but not as much as expected, which, yet again, aligned with Pinto’s statement that the torso had been placed in a freezer before being dropped into Regent’s Canal.
Chapter 8
‘Somebody is supplying you with heroin,’ Larry said to Rasta Joe as they sat in a pub on Portobello Road in Notting Hill.
‘I don’t use heroin,’ the English-born Jamaican said.
‘I’m not here because of that. We know someone is behind the large-scale importation of heroin and cocaine into this country; someone who’ll not hesitate to use extreme violence, even against you.’
‘Whoever he is, he scares us.’ Now Larry knew why the Jamaican was so keen to meet him, not that it meant that Rasta Joe would be buying the drinks.
‘What do you know?’ Larry asked.
‘There are others who trade in drugs.’
‘Not you?’
‘I just clean a few windows, turn a few cars to make money. I don’t mess with heroin.’ Larry only smiled at Rasta Joe’s statement.
‘These others, what do they say?’
‘They say their previous suppliers are either not selling or they’ve disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ Larry queried.
‘Dead.’
‘Any proof?’
‘One day they’re there. The next they’re gone.’
‘How long ago?’
‘One disappeared three weeks ago.’
‘A name?’
‘I’ve never met the man, but those who’ve dealt with him say his name was Rodrigo Fuentes.�
��
‘It sounds Brazilian.’
‘It is.’
‘Where can I find this man?’
‘I told you, he’s disappeared.’
‘And you believe he’s dead?’
‘That’s the word on the street. Someone killed him because he never listened.’
Larry could see the fear in Rasta Joe’s face, at least when he didn’t have a glass of beer to his mouth. Larry matched him pint for pint, knowing full well what his wife would say when he got home. Another night on the couch in the living room seemed a distinct possibility, the only company the family cat.
‘And those who used to buy from Fuentes are now forced to buy from someone else?’
‘It’s the someone else that’s got everyone scared. We, sorry, I mean they, are compelled to pay more money or else.’
‘Or else?’
‘Dead.’
‘You, sorry, I mean they,’ Larry threw back Rasta Joe’s previous slip of the tongue, ‘are using the deaths of Fuentes and Dougal Stewart as a warning.’
‘Fuentes mainly, but there have been others.’
‘Where are these new suppliers?’
‘They move around.’
‘Rasta Joe, we need to work together on this. I know you’re involved in selling drugs, but I’m with Homicide. Whoever these new players are, they’re organised and extremely violent. They could kill again without warning. If you make one wrong move, say the wrong word, or argue their prices, it could be you in the canal minus your head and your genitals.’
‘They didn’t cut off Dave’s balls,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘You knew him?’
‘We used to drink at the same pub.’
‘And you knew that his genitals were intact?’
‘It was in the newspaper.’
‘No, it wasn’t. You know more than you’re telling me. What is it?’
‘Okay. I’ll need your word that I’m safe from prosecution.’
‘From me, you are.’
‘I’m down the pub. I recognise the two men that we’re forced to deal with sitting not far away. They’re hitting the whisky really hard. One is named Devlin, a miserable, tough bastard. The other one calls himself Steve, fancies himself with the women. Anyway, there I am, minding my own business with my girlfriend, hopeful she’ll be receptive to my charms later in the night.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m getting progressively drunk, as is my girlfriend.’
‘What about the two men?’
‘They’re getting louder. I’m sitting there overhearing what they’re saying.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Devlin starts bragging about how he shot the man in the head. Steve, the other one, recounts how they went at the body with a chainsaw.’
‘You’ve known this for how long?’
‘Just a few days. I thought the men were talking nonsense. It was before you fished the body out of the canal.’
‘They weren’t bragging, and they’ll do it again.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
‘Would you testify? Make a written statement.’
‘Are you serious? With those bastards on the loose?’
‘If we put them out of business?’
‘We’ll see,’ Rasta Joe said.
***
Pinto’s bail hearing was a formality. Katrina Hatcher had prepared well, and Isaac, who had made a plea for the man to remain in prison, as much for his own security as anything else, could not sway the judge.
Conditions were imposed: residence at his parents’ house, a weekly visit to his local police station to report in, and a detailed account of his movements. Isaac could see that the situation was not ideal, but there was no more he could do.
Pinto looked to be both pleased and worried as he descended the steps outside the court house.
‘Glad to be out on bail?’ Isaac asked.
‘For the time being.’
Katrina Hatcher came over and wished Pinto well. He accepted her wishes with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. Pinto’s parents were there, and he got into their car.
The bail application and the speed of it being processed concerned Isaac. The two who had killed Dougal Stewart and then chopped him up were still free.
Larry had intended to arrest them on the previous Friday, but they never showed up. He had taken a couple of plain-clothes with him, just in case the two hard cases caused trouble.
The word on the street was that they had left the area. Not that this pleased Larry and Isaac. The drug trade was still operating, so if it wasn’t Devlin and his offsider Steve, it was someone else, or was it?
Isaac thought that maybe the fear within the criminal community had caused everyone to clam up. The full details of Dougal Stewart’s gruesome death were now common knowledge, and even the newspapers and social media were reporting it correctly.
DCS Goddard was a worried man again. His nemesis, Commissioner Alwyn Davies, was on his back again. Three weeks had passed, the alleged murderers were known and yet no arrests.
Isaac had received a phone call from the disagreeable DCI Caddick intimating that he was coming back to show him how to run a murder investigation. Isaac had to admit he did not like the man. Discreet enquiries into Caddick had revealed a history of low achievement, yet the man always came up smelling of roses.
Isaac, disillusioned as he was with his DCS, had to admit that he had protected him in the past, and besides, Isaac knew, he had a good track record, whereas the man aiming to take his place did not.
It seemed incongruous that the commissioner of the Met would compromise his position by protecting Caddick, who was only marginally competent. Unless there was a reason, some event in the past where Caddick had saved Alwyn Davies’s career and reputation. Isaac had to admit it was idle speculation and not relevant to the current case.
Serious and Organised Crimes Command had been in touch to confirm that they were concerned with the escalating drug problem. Apart from that, they had said little, and after a quizzing from Isaac, they had reluctantly agreed that there was a significant operator in the city, and so far they had had little success in tracking down the ringleaders.
It seemed to Isaac that his team was doing better than those with a fancy title and a well-funded operation at Scotland Yard.
***
Larry was out on the street aiming to find out what he could about the men he wanted to arrest. His regular informers had clammed up, even when he offered more than the going rate. Rasta Joe, a man who was a criminal but at least relatively open with him, was saying nothing either. Larry sensed a palpable fear in the criminal community. For once, he was frightened. These people were dangerous, and he had no idea where to look.
Devlin, the person who had shot Dougal Stewart, had accommodation in Bayswater. It had taken some time, but Wendy had found the place. The man’s full name was revealed to be Devlin O’Shaughnessy, and he had an extensive criminal record, mainly for armed robbery. Larry was surprised that he had not heard of the man, but his crimes had been committed in Ireland. Steve, the other villain, was still being elusive. Wendy thought she had found his place, but it was not correct.
Gordon Windsor and his team had been out at O’Shaughnessy’s terrace house. It was expensive, and according to the landlord, O’Shaughnessy paid without fail on the first of the month.
‘Always cash,’ Alex Hughenden said.
‘Illegal money,’ Larry informed him. Hughenden was taken aback, considering that he was a lay preacher in his local church and the curse of illicit drugs worried him greatly.
‘That’s the last time I’ll take money from him,’ Hughenden said.
It seemed a moot point to Larry as it was clear that Devlin O’Shaughnessy was not coming back. The house had been filled with expensive furniture and reflected a man of good taste, yet the tenant was capable of extreme violence. Nothing was apparently missing when Windsor and his team had gone over the place, oth
er than there were no clothes, no personal belongings, no money to be found.
‘You must have known he was a dubious character,’ Larry said to Hughenden, a small, well-dressed man who sported a bowtie.
‘He was remarkably articulate considering.’
‘Considering what?’
‘The tattoos on his arms.’
‘Distinctive?’
‘There was just a lot of them, yet he could discuss art and literature. I liked the man, even if I would not have wanted to introduce him to my circle of friends.’
‘They would have disapproved?’
‘Almost certainly, but quite frankly he was more knowledgeable than most.’
‘What else can you tell me about him?’ Larry asked.
‘He said he had come over from Ireland and he was involved in a cash business.’
‘And you didn’t suspect?’
‘Not really. A lot of people are cash only round here. If you get down to Portobello Road on a Saturday, they’re cash in hand.’
‘But they wouldn’t be able to pay you cash on a monthly basis for your place in Bayswater.’
‘You’re probably right. No doubt I’ve sinned in accepting the man’s money.’
‘Probably, but that’s between you and your maker,’ Larry said, knowing full well that the man had placed greed over his religious ideals.
At least he can ask for forgiveness, Larry, a man with no strong religious conviction, thought.
‘He’s gone now. Any idea where? Any forwarding address?’ Larry asked.
‘He paid me in advance, and no, I don’t know where he’s gone.’
***
Isaac paced up and down Homicide’s office at Challis Street. The case was starting to get to him. The anticipated quick arrests, with certain convictions due to the fingerprints at the warehouse where Dougal Stewart had been butchered, as well as Vicenzo Pinto’s evidence, were not materialising.
Katrina Hatcher had phoned him not two minutes earlier to tell him that Pinto was missing. ‘He failed to report,’ she said.
Pinto’s parents, it was known, lived to the west of the city, and it was thought that he would be safe there. Now there was a concern that he had done a runner, the same as Devlin O’Shaughnessy and his offsider. But why Pinto? The man was likely to get off with a shortened sentence, probably two years maximum, especially if he gave evidence against O’Shaughnessy and Stewart.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 7
