Larry returned to Challis Street; Wendy was already there. Ten minutes later they were out of the office and in the car and driving west.
‘He was all right,’ Pinto’s father said. He still had the strong accent of Napoli when he spoke. His wife, a typical Italian Mamma, said little. She obviously enjoyed the pasta that she made.
‘We need to find him,’ Larry said.
‘He’s been a bad boy,’ Pinto’s mother said.
‘If he works with us, we’ll keep him out of trouble,’ Wendy said. The smell of Italian cooking pervaded the small house; her stomach rumbled.
‘What has happened to him?’ the father asked.
‘That is why we are here. Has he been gambling again?’ Larry asked. He had also smelt the food being prepared in the kitchen.’
‘He said he had given it up but…’
‘Addicted?’
‘Yes. We know he tries, but it’s hard for him.’
‘Why?’
‘A family trait,’ the father said. ‘I was the same at his age. Eventually he’ll grow out of it.’
Larry realised the son may not have that opportunity. And with the two heavies not around, there was a strong possibility they were related.
The two police officers left the Pintos’ house, but not before they had sampled Italian home cooking. They visited the local police station where Pinto had been reporting. The duty officer stood behind the counter as they entered. Larry and Wendy showed their police identification. The locked door through to the offices opened when the officer pressed the button for the electronic lock. Inside, Inspector Pritchard introduced himself.
‘You think he’s dead?’ Pritchard, a slovenly dressed man, asked.
‘He’s an important witness.’
‘Maybe, but dead is dead. There’s not much you can do if we find his body.’
Wendy did not like the man’s attitude. They had only just entered the police station, and Pritchard was already defeatist, as if he always expected the worst. Larry thought he was a half-empty, not a half-full man.
‘We need him found,’ Larry said.
‘And you want me to find him?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a lot of work just for one man.’
‘This man is an important witness in a murder investigation. His whereabouts are critical. Are you able to help?’
‘Why not? We’ll put out an APW. If someone sees him, we’ll soon know.’
‘We’ll need more than that.’
‘We’re undermanned here.’
‘We will need a thorough investigation of all gambling clubs, legal or otherwise, all pubs, all brothels, and it will need to commence within two hours,’ Larry said.
‘Who the hell do you think you are? You come in here and start giving me orders. I’m not your lackey.’
Wendy leant over to Larry, ensuring that Pritchard heard. ‘Phone DCI Cook. Get DCS Goddard to call the officer in charge of this station. And make sure that the DCS mentions that he is becoming involved due to unnecessary delays being incurred by junior officers.’
‘Okay, I don’t need threats. Give us three hours to check,’ Pritchard said.
He rushed out of the office where all three had been sitting; Larry and Wendy could hear him giving orders and raising his voice.
‘A man eager to please,’ Larry said sarcastically.
Five hours later, Pritchard phoned Larry. ‘We can’t find him.’
Chapter 9
Katrina Hatcher, Pinto’s lawyer, was noticeably upset when Isaac phoned her with the latest developments. ‘I worked hard for that man,’ she said.
‘He may turn up yet,’ Isaac said.
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘I’ll remain optimistic for the present.’
Larry and Wendy were back in the office within ninety minutes of receiving the news regarding Pinto. Isaac convened a meeting.
‘It’s not looking good,’ Isaac said. Larry chose to stand in the corner of Isaac’s office. Wendy was sitting down, not willing to admit to the soreness in her legs.
‘For Pinto?’
‘For the whole damn case, and now Alwyn Davies is after our DCS’s blood.’
‘Which means you as well, DCI,’ Wendy said.
‘What can you tell me about Vicenzo Pinto?’ Isaac asked, choosing not to respond to Wendy’s comment.
‘Unless we receive advice to the contrary, Pinto is a missing person,’ Larry said.
‘Is he dead?’ Isaac asked.
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Then we’d better find him or those who may have killed him. What’s the deal with your friend Rasta Joe? Doesn’t he know what’s going on?’
‘He may do, but he’s scared. The same as everyone else on the street. Something’s going on.’
‘But what? You need to squeeze Rasta Joe,’ Isaac said.
‘It would help if you could speak to him,’ Larry said.
‘He’ll not talk to me.’
‘I’ll ask him. He may open up more with you.’
‘A fellow Jamaican over from the Caribbean, is that what you mean?’
‘I suppose so. You understand his culture.’
‘Maybe, but we go back a long way.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Wendy asked.
‘I’ve known Rasta Joe since childhood. Back then he was Joseph Brown. His parents came from Montego Bay.’
‘Criminal then?’
‘He sang in the church choir.’
‘What changed?’
‘Ganja and gangs.’
‘And you, sir?’ Wendy asked.
‘Joining a gang was for losers.’
Larry changed the subject. ‘There’s still Rodrigo Fuentes. According to Rasta Joe, he got on the wrong side of the syndicate. We should still follow up on him. It may lead somewhere.’
‘Pinto had mixed feelings when he was granted bail,’ Isaac said. ‘The man had given us valuable evidence. The syndicate would want him dead.’
‘That’s the word on the street,’ Larry reminded him. ‘So far, Dougal Stewart’s death is the only one we can confirm.’
‘Rodrigo Fuentes. What do we know about him?’
‘Not much. According to Rasta Joe, he operated in the area, importing drugs from South America, and selling to whoever was willing to pay his price.’
‘And he’s believed dead?’ Isaac asked.
‘May not be true, but we should check.’
‘And Devlin O’Shaughnessy and his offsider, Steve. Did we ever get a name for that man?’
‘Steve Walters. Bridget identified him off a photo that Pinto had. We’ve an APW out for both of them, but they could be anywhere.’
‘Even six feet under,’ Isaac said.
‘Or floating down the Thames,’ Wendy added.
***
Rasta Joe, a man who had deliberately distanced himself from the police before, was now very accessible. Larry had suggested meeting with Isaac, and the man had agreed. Not that Isaac was pleased when he had been informed that they were to meet that day, but out of the city. ‘It’s too dangerous for me to meet you in public,’ Rasta Joe had said.
‘You can always come down the police station,’ Larry said.
‘They’ll have someone watching. No one’s safe, not even me.’
‘Why? What have you done?’
‘I’ve met you.’
‘Have they contacted you?’
‘I can sense they’re watching.’
‘Sense them?’ Larry asked.
‘You’d not understand.’
Larry knew that a Rastafarian believed in the power of ganja to discover their inner consciousness, but he supposed that if Rasta Joe was feeling the effects of the drug, he might well have thought he had the ability to sense something that was not there. Not that it concerned Larry. He had the all clear to take Isaac with him.
The three men met in Guildford, a small town to the south of London.
‘Rasta Joe,
this is DCI Cook,’ Larry said as the men met in the back room of a local pub.
‘How are you, Isaac?’
Fine. And you, Joseph?’
‘DCI Cook said that he knew you.’
‘We were friends back then,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘And now?’ Larry asked.
‘A lot of water under the bridge since then,’ Isaac said.
‘Your boss is right,’ Rasta Joe said, talking to Larry. ‘We don’t see eye to eye.’
‘Now’s not the time to rake up the past,’ Isaac said.
‘Did you find the man who grassed on them?’ Rasta Joe asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘The word on the street is that he’s dead.’
‘What else does the street say?’
All three men had a pint in their hand. Isaac remembered the last time he had met Joseph Brown, the choir boy. Back then he had been a decent person, but now he was scum. Isaac did not like his fellow Jamaican, but this was not the time to show ill feeling. Whatever the future held for Isaac and the current case, it seemed that Rasta Joe was to be an integral part of it.
Rasta Joe waited for Larry to bring him another pint. The frightened man was still able to enjoy himself at the police’s expense. ‘Whoever’s running this organisation, he’s got powerful friends, and nobody’s safe, not even the police.’
‘What do you interpret that to mean?’ Larry asked.
‘You need to be scared, the same as me.’
‘Were we mentioned directly?’
‘That’s not how they operate. It’s by veiled threats, intimidation, a dead body in the canal.’
‘But they mentioned Pinto?’
‘Not directly. Only that the person who had grassed had been dealt with, and anyone else that crosses them can expect the same.’
‘Did they say where he had been killed? What had happened to the body.’
‘You’ll find him soon enough,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘I thought Rastafarians didn’t drink alcohol,’ Isaac said. He had left the majority of the conversation to Larry; he had not forgiven his fellow Jamaican for what had happened in the past.
Larry had noted his DCI’s disdain for the man sitting opposite. He would ask him later what it was about.
‘I don’t hold with all their views.’
‘You’re heavy on the ganja,’ Larry said.
‘I happen to like it.’
‘Coming back to your earlier statement, that we’ll find him soon enough,’ Isaac said.
‘They intended to make an example of Pinto. A warning to others.’
‘I would have thought Dougal Stewart would have been sufficient.’
‘Short memories out on the street. They need reminding on a regular basis.’
‘Every two weeks?’ Isaac said.
‘Maybe not so often, but Pinto’s a special case.’
‘Why are you frightened?’ Larry asked Rasta Joe.
‘As I said, I’ve been seen with you.’
‘Did they contact you?’
‘I received a phone call.’
‘Who was it?’
‘That bastard Devlin.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me not to take out any life insurance.’
‘Where did he phone from?’
‘No idea.’
‘We may be able to trace it,’ Isaac said, anxious to get back to London. If Pinto was dead, they needed to find him soon, as well as Rodrigo Fuentes. He knew that if they didn’t act quickly, Rasta Joe might be added to the list as well as his DI, Larry Hill.
***
DCS Goddard was in Isaac’s office on his return. He was not in a good mood, which was not unusual since Commissioner Alwyn Davies had assumed the top position at the Met. Isaac would have preferred not to have seen his DCS. There was a phone number to trace. Larry had taken the details of the phone call made to Rasta Joe, the number clearly visible on the screen. Bridget could trace where the phone call was made from, as well as other phone calls from O’Shaughnessy’s phone. And there was the issue of Rodrigo Fuentes. Who was he? Where was he?
Fuentes’ death didn’t ring true. No body and the syndicate’s warning was diluted, and supposedly there had been others, but who were they?’
Challis Street Police Station was responsible for the area, and there was a lot more crime going on that they didn’t know about, or at least they didn’t know about in the Homicide Department.
There had been a time in the past when a visit from Richard Goddard was always welcome, but those times were long past. ‘What’s this I hear about Vicenzo Pinto?’
‘What did you hear, sir?’
‘That your star witness is dead.’
‘We have no proof.’
‘Yet again, a laughingstock. You have a witness to the murder, and he walks out of the courtroom.’
‘He satisfied the requirements for bail.’
‘Only because you watered the charge down. It’s not that lawyer of his, pretty and female, is it?’
‘I resent that aspersion,’ Isaac responded.
‘We’ve had this conversation before. Did you go easy on Pinto because of her?’
‘No.’
‘Very well, but why didn’t you charge him with murder?’
‘The man had no criminal record, and he checked out. I could hardly charge him with murder, knowing full well that any half-smart lawyer would have had him out of here in twelve hours.’
‘You could have held him for longer.’
‘We still don’t know he’s dead,’ Isaac said.
‘You believe him to be dead though.’
‘I’m willing to concede that possibility.’
‘Good God, man. How can I protect you?’
The man’s interested in his own future, not in justice, Isaac thought.
Wendy, sensing the mood in Isaac’s office, kept her distance. She had news to tell him, but it could wait.
‘What are you doing to find Pinto?’ Goddard asked.
‘We have an APW out for him.’
‘What are they looking for, the man or a body?’
‘Both. Unless confirmed otherwise, we’ll focus on both.’
‘And if he’s dead?’
‘We’re back to square one.’
‘This Jamaican friend of yours, any help?’
‘He’s no friend of mine.’
‘What’s he got to say?’
‘Pinto’s dead. Another drug dealer is also probably dead.’
‘They’re not corpses down the morgue?’
‘No.’
‘I need this wrapped up,’ Goddard said before storming out of the office.
‘Rough, sir?’ Wendy asked when she came into Isaac’s office.
‘All the time,’ Isaac replied.
‘He’s under a lot of pressure.’
‘So are we. Anyway, what do you have?’
‘A trace on O’Shaughnessy’s phone.’
‘And?’
‘O’Shaughnessy’s phone call to Rasta Joe was made five days after DI Hill intended to arrest him.’
‘Where was the call made?’
‘Local.’
‘Can you be more precise?’
‘Bayswater. Only accurate to within fifty metres.’
‘A needle in a haystack,’ Isaac said.
‘There are literally hundreds of potential locations, and tens of thousands of people.’
‘Any more calls from O’Shaughnessy’s number?’
‘We’re going through them now. He’s not made any calls for the last few days.’
‘Which means?’
‘He’s using another phone.’
‘Trace all his phone calls; see if you can find any reference to Pinto. Also, any phone calls to his boss.’
‘A long night for Bridget and I,’ Wendy said.
‘A long night for all of us,’ Isaac replied, knowing full well that the murder of Dougal Stewart, the assumed murder of Vicenzo Pinto, were not
to be the last.
***
Vicenzo Pinto, strung up as if he was a piece of meat, was barely conscious. The savage beating had almost killed him. ‘Please, let me go. I never told them anything.’
‘So how did they find out my address?’ an angry Devlin O’Shaughnessy said.
Outside it was late, and Pinto did not know where he was, although it was only four miles from the sanctity of his parents’ house. He had not enjoyed himself there, what with his mother fussing and his father lecturing about how he had wasted his life. Pinto, if he had been in a position to contemplate it, would have said that his father was a right one to talk, knowing his father’s predilection for gambling in his youth.
Steve Walters, Devlin’s offsider, stood to one side of Pinto. ‘You remember what we did to Dave?’
‘Please. I told them nothing.’
‘How come you’re out on bail?’
‘My lawyer, she was excellent.’
‘I would have said she was a miracle worker,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘I rob a supermarket, and I’m slammed inside for ten years, and there’s no bail for me. Either your lawyer’s screwing the black police inspector or you’ve done a deal.’
‘I swear that I’ve not made a deal,’ Pinto said. The derelict warehouse was cold and miserable, even O’Shaughnessy and Walters would admit that, but they had the benefit of clothes; Pinto did not.
‘We want the full story.’ Walters, a shorter man than his dismembering colleague, worked out at a gym in Notting Hill. His muscles bulged under his shirt.
‘I did nothing,’ Pinto panted. His feet were barely touching the ground, his arms were stretched, his wrists securely bound. ‘They had nothing on me.’
‘Their Forensics department took the car we gave you apart.’
‘They knew about Dave and that I threw him in the canal.’
‘Then why release you?’
‘I’m still charged with drug trafficking and the illegal disposal of a body.’
‘No one gets bail for drug trafficking,’ O’Shaughnessy said, punching his fist into the desperate man’s chest.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 8
