‘Did he murder Fuentes?’
‘That’s what Pinto reckoned.’
‘What happened to him?’ Rasta Joe asked. Larry noticed that his concern had not quenched his ability to down the pints.
‘Vicenzo Pinto is missing, presumed dead. And why are you so frightened?’
‘I was buying from Fuentes. You’re not going to arrest me for that confession, are you?’
‘Dealing with whoever’s behind these murders is more important.’
Rasta Joe considered his position. It was either level with DI Hill or run the risk of an untimely death. He chose to level. ‘If I work with you on this, you’ve got to promise you’ll keep me out of prison,’ he said. It was the first time he had trusted a policeman; he knew it would raise the ire of his criminal compatriots, but they weren’t being threatened, he was.
‘That’s not a promise I can give.’
‘Then no deal.’
‘Is what you know crucial to our inquiry?’ Larry asked.
‘I can finger Hughenden,’ the Jamaican said.
‘What I can guarantee you is that your past and present crimes will be overlooked, but any in the future, then you’re on your own. No protection from me.’
Rasta Joe sat back and sipped on his beer. ‘It’s a deal. In writing?’
‘You know I can’t do that. You’ll have to trust me on this one.’
‘Alex Hughenden is not as clean as he pretends to be.’
‘We have strong suspicions that he’s not, but it’s difficult to prove.’
‘I don’t know about him and the drug trafficking, although Devlin O’Shaughnessy was drunk one night and he was talking.’
‘To you?’
‘After a few drinks, no way.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Sober, he’s decent enough, but after a few drinks he starts getting unpleasant, making comments.’
‘What sort?’
‘The ones I’ve heard all my life. Ask your DCI, he’ll know what I mean.’
‘Go back to where you come from, you black bastard. That sort of thing?’ Larry asked. ‘He still gets it occasionally.’
‘At the police station?’
‘They wouldn’t say it to his face, but some wouldn’t be sorry to see him go.’
‘There are still racists out there,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘And people who deal in drugs.’
‘Point taken. Besides, I intend to be an honest citizen from now on.’
‘Remember, I’ll only protect you as long as you're straight with me. Any further criminal activity, I’ll not protect you.’ Larry knew the Jamaican would not leave crime, no more than he would give up policing. Rasta Joe represented the worst in society: people who prey on the vulnerabilities of others.
Larry looked round the pub. He remembered in his youth, when he used to drink more than he should, that a public house was an Englishman’s enclave, but now in a pub close to Notting Hill he could only see people from elsewhere. In the far corner, he saw a couple of young lovers oblivious to their surroundings; at the bar, a group of migrants in from Eastern Europe speaking one of the Slavic languages. Larry assumed it was Polish, as they were everywhere in London. Most were decent people trying to make their way, but an undesirable element had come in with them.
Larry had to admit that he liked Rasta Joe as a person. The man was entertaining, and now that he needed him, affable. It did not excuse the man from the fact that he made a living out of the misery and addiction of others.
The two men organised a pub lunch. Larry knew that after five pints there would be no food for him at home that night. Not that he blamed his wife, as she only cared for him, but sometimes there had been some furious arguments, at least from her side, about why he needed to drink as part of the job. Larry was confident she understood, but it did not stop her complaining, although she was not a woman to dwell on it for too long. The next morning his breakfast would be on the table, and she would be back to her cheerful self.
‘What’s the deal with Hughenden?’ Larry asked as he proceeded to eat his steak and chips.
‘You need to check out the merchandise in his shop.’
‘I know it’s expensive.’
‘Ask him where it all came from.’
‘What do you know?’
‘One of my mates, he’s a thief.’
‘I thought all your friends were good citizens.’
‘He is. Anyway, what’s the difference between someone who steals from the rich and those rich bastards who never pay their taxes.’
Larry had to admit he had a point, but he was not there to discuss social inequalities. ‘Your friend, what does he say about Hughenden?’
‘Hughenden will buy the expensive stuff from him.’
‘Are you certain? Will your friend put that down in writing?’
‘What do you think?’ Rasta Joe said.
‘No, but I’ll need details,’ Larry said.
‘Then my friend will be in trouble with Hughenden.’
‘Is Hughenden the man in charge of the syndicate?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him involved, but O’Shaughnessy’s involved and Hughenden’s crooked. What do you think?’
‘We have our suspicions that Hughenden is a senior man, but no proof.’
‘I can’t get you proof. Too much risk for me.’
‘But you’re here.’
‘I’ve people watching out for me. If anyone makes a move towards me, they’ll see them.’
‘Part of your gang?’
‘Don’t look, you’ll not notice them.’
Larry knew full well that a black man in London did not look out of place, although there were certain areas where a white man would. He was aware that Rasta Joe had supplied the information necessary to pressure Hughenden, but without proof, the man would slide out from under.
Chapter 13
Alex Hughenden had walked from the Challis Street Police Station a confident man. He knew they had nothing on him, although he had allowed them to get under his skin a few times. He determined to take care not to let it happen again. He could never understand why others allowed themselves to be caught, although greed seemed likely. He had always been careful to keep his criminal activities at a moderate level, knowing full well that the occasional illegal activity would not be visible.
Over the years he had made a fortune, but was always careful to conceal it: no rash purchases of expensive cars, no overt signs of obscene wealth. The houses he had purchased could be seen as the wise investments of a successful businessman and certainly within the realms of possibility from the takings of his jewellery shop. It was small, but it only dealt in the best, to an exclusive clientele who were more concerned with the beauty of the object than its cost. Nevertheless, they would always brag to their socially-paranoid acquaintances about how much they had paid; almost a badge of honour to show that money meant little to them.
He knew these people for what they were, and he did not like them very much. He much preferred the humble people at his church. Hughenden had grown up in a strictly Methodist God-fearing family: the patriarch, the manager of the local bank. He had advised the young Alex well. ‘Look after your money, invest wisely and don’t show it off to others. They will only be jealous.’
His father had forgotten one lesson, don’t get involved in crime, which is what the young Alex did as soon as he was able to figure the percentages on the deal.
‘To give you a good religious grounding,’ his father had said when the young Alex had complained at being sent to a cold and dusty boarding school. Two years later, when he was ten, Alex learnt the truth during an unexpected visit to his father’s bank. He had caught him sitting on his desk with his personal assistant kneeling in front of him. His father had made light of the matter, said he had a stomach ache and she was attempting to massage the sore area.
Young Alex, only ten and unknowledgeable of such matters, remembered later the magazines of some of
the older boys at the school and then realised what he had just seen.
From that day on, the relationship between father and son had deteriorated, and no more was mentioned about what had occurred. His mother, oblivious to her hypocritical bigot of a husband, went to her grave believing in him totally. Alex had wanted to tell her when he was older, but never did. He knew he had made the right decision in at least ensuring that one member of his family was blissfully ignorant of the realities of life.
His mother had believed in good and bad, heaven and earth, and her husband. Her son had only one belief, the percentage and what was in it for him. He knew that at the church he was as insincere as his father, but he never cheated them, and he certainly did not indulge in blowjobs with his secretary, not that he had one, and although the lady who helped him at the weekend was attractive, he never made a play for her.
Hughenden was a celibate man. The roughness of O’Shaughnessy had tempted him, although he knew full well what the man’s reaction would be, and besides, he liked his life the way it was: alone and self-contained.
***
Wendy, alerted by Larry after his conversation with Rasta Joe, maintained her vigil, although she could not stay indefinitely waiting for the first sign of criminal intent on Hughenden’s part, and besides it could be weeks, months before he made a move.
She was sitting in a café opposite observing his shop, but there were only so many cups she could drink in a day.
Larry joined her. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘What do you expect? That he’s buying stolen jewellery every five minutes?’ Wendy said tersely. The caffeine was starting to get to her, and her DI’s breath stank.
‘Of course not. What do you suggest?’
‘What are we trying to achieve? I thought we were after a murderer, not someone who deals in stolen goods.’
‘We need a lever on our man opposite. He’s squeaky clean, too clean, and he knows something.’
‘No criminal record?’
‘Nothing of importance, and that’s bugging us. Hughenden’s fencing stolen jewellery, and he’s too smart by half. He made mincemeat of DCI Cook and me.’
‘He’s the Mister Big?’
‘Not sure, but probably not. It would need more than one individual.’
‘Hughenden doesn’t fit the bill?’ Wendy asked.
‘The man rarely travels out of the country, and it would need personal meetings to pull off the scale of the drugs being imported.’
‘We can’t sit here indefinitely. If you want to get this man, we need to research stolen goods, known thieves. Then we might stand a chance. I could work with Bridget on this,’ Wendy said.
‘I’ll concentrate on where O’Shaughnessy has gone. If we can find him, then he may rat on Hughenden. Either we wrap this up soon, or DCI Caddick is back.’
‘I suggest we work overtime then. Nobody wants him back in the office.’
‘Agreed.’
‘If you don’t mind my bluntness, DI,’ Wendy said, ‘buy some mints, the strong ones, or your wife is going to have apoplexy.’
Larry knew she was right. Too many times he had returned home drunk, and he could see it becoming a habit. He had seen too many police officers’ marriages confined to history due to a predilection to drink too much, work too many hours, and associate with criminals, and Rasta Joe was a criminal, the worst kind. In fact, he had to admit that many criminals were charming, even Hughenden with his superior manner, but Larry wasn’t sure if O’Shaughnessy would be. The man was literate, but he had gone at Stewart’s body with a chainsaw: hardly the manner of a charming man.
‘Across the road!’ Larry said.
‘Hughenden,’ Wendy said. ‘Where’s he going?’
‘No idea, but it’s not the time to be closing up.’
Both the police officers observed the man as he fastidiously secured the metal grille over the windows and set the alarm. He was moving quickly as he completed the task, which seemed unusual, especially to Larry, as the man had been, if anything, in the interview at Challis Street, slow and measured.
‘Something’s flustered him,’ Wendy said. ‘We need to follow him.’
‘You’re better than me. You’d better do it.’
Soon after the two police officers left the café, Larry careful to conceal himself as he turned to the right. Wendy turned to the left, her eyes very firmly on Hughenden’s back. She hoped he would not walk fast as her legs were giving her trouble, or jump in a car, as hers was fifty yards away.
Hughenden continued to walk at a brisk pace. Wendy realised she could keep up if it were only for a mile or so. The man did not look to the left and right, and certainly not behind him, which was as well, as a red in the face woman would have been suspicious.
Four hundred yards from his shop, Hughenden came to a halt. A man approached him from a side street. Wendy ducked into a shop doorway to observe. The owner of the shop came out to ask what she was doing. ‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone,’ she said. She showed her police identification. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’
‘Take as long as you like,’ the shop owner said.
Wendy, momentarily distracted, could see the two men in discussion. It seemed to be an amenable conversation. Wendy took out her phone and made a call. ‘DI, it’s O’Shaughnessy.’
Larry, alerted to the development, started to put plans into place.
Isaac was contacted and could see one murderer charged if they could only capture him. DCS Goddard, who was in his SIO’s office at the time of Larry Hill’s phone call, was elated. ‘This will keep Commissioner Davies off my back,’ he said.
‘Still causing trouble?’ Isaac asked.
‘The man looks after his own.’
‘Caddick,’ Isaac said.
‘Davies wants me out, too.’
‘Can he do that?’
‘If he can prove incompetence.’
‘We’re not incompetent,’ Isaac responded.
‘Davies knows that, but that’s hardly the point, is it?’
‘Throw enough mud around for long enough, some is bound to stick.’
‘That’s it,’ Goddard said. The man had entered Isaac’s office ten minutes earlier, and for him, he was in a remarkably good mood. Rarely seen with a cheery smile, he had positively been beaming when he had entered.
Isaac had asked why, although had not received a satisfactory answer. Knowing his DCS as well as he did, it could only mean a new political connection either within the police service or without. He was playing a dangerous game, and if the commissioner discovered it, whatever it was, then Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard would be hung out to dry. Isaac knew that office politics was not a game he played well or even wanted to, but the DCS revelled in it. With the previous commissioner, it had worked well, but with Commissioner Davies it was a risky gamble.
‘I want the man charged by tonight,’ Goddard said.
‘We’ve got to catch him first.’
‘Don’t give me that negativity. Sergeant Gladstone’s got him in her sights. How can he get away?’
‘You’re right. We don’t intend to let him slip through the net.’ Isaac picked up his phone. ‘Larry, mobilise whoever you can. We want O’Shaughnessy.’
‘He’s just driven off with Hughenden.’
‘Damn,’ Isaac said. ‘Any idea where?’
‘We know where.’
‘Where? I’ve DCS Goddard in the office with me,’ Isaac said. Larry took the hint to be careful in what he said.
‘O’Shaughnessy’s old house. I had an officer out there as soon as Hughenden closed his shop.’
‘Well done,’ Goddard said over the phone.
‘Thanks, sir,’ Larry replied.
‘Are they both in the house?’ Isaac asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Storm it and grab O’Shaughnessy.’
‘Not so easy. It’s best if we wait it out.’
‘It could be a long wait. We need O’Shaughnessy today.’
‘Very well,’ Larry replied.
Chapter 14
Inside a house, a smart terrace house in a good part of Bayswater, two men spoke. One a jewellery shop owner, the other, a known murderer.
‘Devlin, the police are looking for you. Why are you here?’ Hughenden asked. He was feeling distinctly uncomfortable with the situation, unsure whether to trust his former tenant or not.
‘I need to get out of the country.’ O’Shaughnessy sat in a comfortable leather chair, his favourite to recline in when listening to classical music when he had been living there.
‘Where to?’
‘I can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’ Hughenden asked. The man sitting across from him was edgy, and Hughenden knew he was dangerous. They had been friends, good friends, but now…
‘Get real, Alex. We’re both in trouble.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I’ve had a phone call.’
‘From who?’
‘Our mysterious master, that’s who.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He wants me to kill you.’
Hughenden, the colour in his face draining rapidly, took one step back and sat down hard on a wooden chair on his side of the room. ‘Why?’
‘I never asked.’
‘Are you going to do what he says?’
‘Killing someone is not the problem, not even you, but you’ve been a friend, done right by me.’
‘And our leader?’
‘Who is he? What is he? If he can dispense with you, then he can have me killed.’
‘What did he promise you?’ Hughenden asked. He had to admit he had gained pleasure from watching Dougal Stewart’s death, had even relished Devlin’s account of how Rodrigo Fuentes had pleaded for his life in a mix of accented English and Portuguese. He imagined that it had been him instead of O’Shaughnessy who had secured Fuentes’ ankles with a chain, the other end secured to an old anchor, and then thrown him off the side of the boat, but now it was him who was to be on the receiving end, and he did not like it.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 12
