‘And there’s Pinto’s.’
‘You’ve no proof.’
‘His body’s got to be somewhere,’ Isaac said. He still wanted O’Shaughnessy to crack and to tell him where Pinto was and how the drug syndicate operated, but he knew that could wait.
***
Len Donaldson may have been an expert on illicit drugs, but he knew nothing about jewellery. Neither did Wendy Gladstone, who had accompanied him on the Homicide team’s behalf. Both had to admit that Alex Hughenden, regardless of what he might be, knew the value of silver and gold. The shop was stocked with the most exquisite items at prices neither of the two moderately paid police officers could afford. The jewellery that Wendy had so admired in the shop window on a previous occasion was locked in a safe at the rear of the shop.
Hughenden, when he realised that the search was going ahead, had given the police all assistance, including the combinations to the safes and how to disable the alarm, which was as well as the police would have still entered and opened the safes, although it would have taken longer.
‘I don’t want you messing up my shop the same as you damaged my house,’ Hughenden said. He was allowed to be present while the search was being conducted, but not to interfere.
‘It’ll be fixed,’ Donaldson said. He had seen the house and had been appalled at the mess left by the police. Someone was going to pay, he knew that, but they had apprehended a murderer, and now he had the heat on the shop owner. Not that it showed as Hughenden was calm, assisting where he could, advising on what each item in his store cost: its silver mark, how many carats, its history, and most importantly, where he had bought it and for how much.
‘We’ll not find anything,’ Donaldson said. He had brought a jewellery expert with him to validate whatever Hughenden said.
‘Why do you say that?’ Wendy asked. She was attempting to focus on the work in hand, but she was also bedazzled by such beauty.
‘He’s a meticulous man. His records will be the same.’
‘Forged?’
‘Some may be.’
‘Are you saying we need his records checked by a forgery expert?’ Wendy asked.
‘We need something on this man,’ Donaldson said. ‘He’s the key to the drug trafficking, I’m sure of it, but he’s not going to crack. Not unless we have a lever.’
‘He may know about Fuentes and Pinto.’
‘Do you know how many people die each year in England because of people like Hughenden and O’Shaughnessy?’ Donaldson asked.
‘A lot more than the three deaths we’re dealing with at Challis Street.’
‘Over two thousand five hundred last year. That’s three times the European average.’
‘It puts it into perspective,’ Wendy admitted.
‘The deaths of a few criminals are nothing compared to the harm they cause to society. Frankly, I’m not bothered with Dougal Stewart, not even your Vicenzo Pinto, or the Brazilian, if their deaths lead us to whoever’s running this syndicate.’
‘I can understand your sentiments. I had a friend whose son became addicted. It killed him in the end.’ Wendy reflected on her oldest son who for a while had smoked marijuana.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. It’s harmless, no worse than beer,’ he’d said.
Thankfully, in his case, it had only been a passing fad, and he soon migrated back to beer, although at the time his coming home drunk had caused her sleepless nights.
The jewellery expert could only praise the quality of the items in the shop. ‘Nothing to note here,’ he told Donaldson and Wendy. ‘Excellent quality.’
‘Is any of it stolen?’ Donaldson asked.
‘The well-heeled don’t always report it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Unless it has special significance, they’ll not bother. And most people inflate the price for insurance.’
‘But for precious items, they’d need to be valued,’ Wendy said.
‘A valuation at retail prices, which means the owner would be unlikely to receive that much if they sold them on the open market. They’d be forced to sell through a place like this, and they want their commission.’
‘You’d better take the records,’ Wendy said.
‘I’ll have them checked out by Fraud and Forgery,’ Donaldson replied. He informed Hughenden, who maintained his air of infallibility.
The search had taken three hours, and Len Donaldson realised he was no nearer to solving his case. Wendy returned to Challis Street Police Station.
Both knew there was a lot more work before their respective cases could be closed.
***
Wayne Norman was a smart arse, always on the periphery of crime. He was a thin young man of twenty-two, and whereas he should be forging a career in the city or in trade, he was doing neither. Not that either option interested him anyway. He was what society would deem a useless layabout. A definition his hard-working mother would only concur with.
‘Find yourself a job,’ she had said the previous night in the flat that they called home, although others would call it a slum. The woman worked two jobs to pay the rent and to put food on the table, and a twenty-two-year-old child who bled her dry emotionally and financially was not something she needed. She had reasoned with him, even kicked him out a few times, but after a week he had come back reeking of living on the street, dossing down where he could, sleeping in a charity clothing bin or down an alley.
He was her son and she could not kick him out again, even if she did not love him the way a mother should love a child.
‘Jobs are for fools,’ Wayne Norman would always reply. ‘Look at you, working day and night for a pittance.’
‘And what about you?’ she’d ask.
‘I get by.’ And get by he did with petty thieving: handbags and mobile phones mainly.
For once, he had left the flat early. He wandered down Acklam Road, not with any purpose, only looking to cause mischief: an unlocked car where the owner had left it the night before when he had come home drunk, a parcel left on a doorstep, some clothing hanging on a line. It was not often he walked along that road, and the sight of a run-down garage off to the railway side of the road intrigued him. He moved closer, tested the lock, looked around him. It was still early, and it was cold. He pulled at the lock, and it came away from the wooden door. He entered, once again checking to see no one was watching. Apart from some old boxes and car parts, there was nothing of interest except for an old freezer in the corner. He opened it, hoping to find something of value, something he could sell down the road, no questions asked.
He moved the ice that had formed with a metal rod that he found in the garage. Wayne Norman, a lazy man, jumped back, falling over as he rapidly retreated from the garage. A local man walking his dog saw him exit. ‘What are you doing in there?’ he asked.
‘It’s a …’ Norman’s only reply as he ran down the road.
The old man looked inside the garage. He took one look in the freezer and made a phone call.
The team at Challis Street were alerted, and within minutes were in the car, moving towards the location. They brought a couple of uniforms to secure the area.
Isaac, usually office bound, led the team into the garage. They had been forewarned of what was inside and had put on foot protectors and gloves. They kept to one side of the garage, as there were clearly footprints in the middle. Isaac reached the freezer and lifted the lid.
‘Vicenzo Pinto, I presume,’ he said in an attempt at levity, emulating the immortal lines of Henry Stanley when he first met Dr Livingstone in remotest Africa in an earlier century.
One phone call from Larry, and Gordon Windsor and his team of investigators were on the way. The three police officers retreated from the garage. The curious onlookers were starting to gather. A collection of police cars and police officers was not an everyday occurrence, although there was a good collection of third rate rogues and villains who lived nearby. However, Isaac did not believe any of them were responsible. He knew who had p
ut the body there, and he was in custody for one murder. Another one would not faze O’Shaughnessy, although it may Alex Hughenden. Isaac was determined to nail the man. He didn’t believe him responsible for the death of Dougal Stewart or of this victim, almost certainly Vicenzo Pinto – the clothes matched his parents’ description from the day he was last seen – but Hughenden was instrumental in them, had possibly given the instructions for two men’s deaths, possibly a third with Rodrigo Fuentes.
Once Pinto’s cause of death was confirmed, Isaac intended to force Hughenden to speak. The evidence, although not conclusive, was adding up, and was enough at least to charge the jewellery shop owner as an accessory to murder. He knew Galbraith would try to wriggle his client out of a conviction, but it was enough to hold the man in the cells at the police station.
Chapter 17
It only took Gordon Windsor and his team one hour before he was able to give a verbal report. ‘It’s Pinto,’ he said.
‘Is the body intact?’ Isaac asked over the phone from his office.
‘Yes. He was stabbed in the chest.’
‘Is that the cause of death?’
‘Pathology will need to confirm, but it seems conclusive to me. He’s only been in the freezer for a short time. He’s still recognisable. DNA checks will confirm it’s him, as well as identification by a relative.’
‘When can that be done?’
‘We’ll take the body to the pathologist in the next couple of hours. Give it another few hours for him to defrost, and it should be fine.’
‘I’ll make it for five this afternoon,’ Isaac said. ‘Fingerprints?’
‘O’Shaughnessy’s.’
‘Any sign of Hughenden’s?’
‘None. Just O’Shaughnessy’s, although my people will stay on and check further. It looks as though Pinto was dead when he was brought here.’
‘We could ask the neighbours if they saw anything.’
‘Around here? Are you joking? They’re not the friendliest, and besides, it’s clear who put him in the freezer.’
Isaac ended the phone call. Wendy and Larry were in the office. ‘Wendy, a job for you,’ he said.
‘The worst job for a police officer: telling the next of kin their loved one is dead,’ Wendy said.
‘It’s either you or a local police officer where they live.’
‘I’ll do it, and besides, you need them for an identification. I’ll bring back one of his parents with me.’
‘Larry, check out if anyone saw anything.’
‘I’ll get some uniforms to do it. We’ll need to talk to O’Shaughnessy again.’
‘I’ll phone up Galbraith,’ Isaac said.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you have some unusual friends,’ Larry said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Rasta Joe and Galbraith.’
‘Believe me, neither are friends. I grew up with them: one of us became a criminal, another a smart-arse lawyer, and the other a police officer.’
‘An excellent police officer,’ Wendy said.
‘Thanks, but I don’t think that is how Commissioner Davies would refer to me.’
‘Then he’s a damn fool.’
***
Devlin O’Shaughnessy, even after time in the cells, was no more agreeable than the previous time. Adam Galbraith was present. Larry and Isaac represented the police.
‘We’ve found Vicenzo Pinto,’ Isaac said.
‘What’s that to me?’ O’Shaughnessy replied.
‘It seems you have a preference for freezing your murder victims.’
‘I’ve killed no one, so don’t try and put his death on me.’
‘We’ll make sure you’re convicted for the death of Dougal Stewart first. If you worm your way out of that, we’ll then charge you with Pinto’s death.’
‘Do what you want. I’ll not be around to see it.’
‘Why? Are you going somewhere?’
‘Galbraith will get me out.’
‘He’s that good, is he?’ Isaac asked.
‘He said you went to school with him.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Then you know he’s a smart man. He’ll deal with your charging me. Down on your arrest quota this month, are you?’
Isaac could see that the man had nothing to lose and was baiting him.
‘My client is innocent of all crimes,’ Galbraith finally spoke after his client had said his piece.
‘Mr O’Shaughnessy will have his day in court,’ Isaac said. ‘How he’s going to wriggle out of either murder when his fingerprints are everywhere is hard to see.’
‘You do know Acklam Road?’ Larry asked O’Shaughnessy.
‘I drive down it sometimes,’ O’Shaughnessy answered in a vague, disinterested manner. ‘What about it?’
‘Do you own or lease a garage there?’
‘Not likely. The bastards will steal anything up there.’
‘Then why did you leave Pinto in a freezer in one of the garages.’
‘That is a prejudiced question,’ Galbraith said. ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy does not need to answer.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t,’ Isaac said, ‘but his fingerprints are all over the place, and there are shoe prints as well. We’re aiming to match them with footwear that Mr O’Shaughnessy owns. He may have disposed of the bloodied footwear from murdering Pinto, but we’ve got all the records we need. Also, there are tyre marks in the driveway. We will be checking them as well. One way or the other, regardless of whether your client wishes to talk, we’ve got him. You know that.’
Galbraith sat still, looking Isaac straight in the eyes. He’s got enough evidence, he thought.
‘I’ll answer,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘Three words, maybe four. I’ve got nothing more to say.’
‘That’s six,’ Isaac replied.
‘Always so smart, aren’t you? I’m dying, and you’re going to slam me up in prison for the last few years of my life. You’re a bastard and whatever I say will make no difference. Do what you like. I’ll say no more.’
Isaac could see that they had drawn a blank with the man, although he was guilty as charged. ‘Alex Hughenden is involved,’ he said.
‘In what?’ O’Shaughnessy asked.
‘The importation and selling of large quantities of illegal drugs.’
‘You’re after him as well. He’s a successful man, you’re just a policeman. Jealous, are you?’
‘Did he give you the orders to kill three men?’
‘Why do you keep reiterating the same old tired questions? Galbraith, do I have to sit here?’
‘If you have no more to say, then no.’
‘Okay. I’ve got no more to say.’
‘So be it,’ Isaac reluctantly agreed and terminated the interview.
Outside, his senior, DCS Goddard, asked what he thought.
‘Fifty years ago, he wouldn’t have had to worry about another five years with cancer.’
‘Capital punishment, last hanging in 1964.’
‘Yes, that’s it. The man’s guilty and no smart defence lawyer, certainly not Galbraith, will get him off.’
***
Later that day, Wendy phoned in. Pinto’s father had formally identified the body. In the meantime, there was still the unresolved matter of Alex Hughenden. Len Donaldson insisted on being present when he was interviewed again. Larry, for once at a loose end, went home early. He had not seen his children for three days as he arrived home late and left early. He knew his wife would be pleased to see him.
Hughenden was known to be at his shop. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone and DCI Len Donaldson went to pick him up. The front door was locked when they arrived even though it was still early afternoon. Wendy remained at the front while Donaldson went around the back.
‘What the –?’ Donaldson shouted on arriving at the back door.
Wendy, hearing the commotion, rushed to join him.
‘It’s not looking good,’ Donaldson said.
‘We need some uni
forms.’ Wendy took out her phone and called for a crime scene to be set up.
The two police officers entered through the back door. There was a general sense of chaos, with one chair upended and a box of bracelets spilled over the floor.
‘We should wait in case someone else is here,’ Wendy said. Donaldson chose to ignore her.
He moved along through the small corridor towards the front of the shop. He knew something was wrong; he could sense it. Two uniforms arrived within five minutes. Wendy phoned Isaac to update him. He recommended caution, but Donaldson, a man desperate to break the drug syndicate, was throwing caution to the wind.
‘Up here,’ he shouted back. ‘The man’s here.’
Wendy moved forward, unsure of what she was going to find, but conditioned by her work in Homicide to the sight of a dead body, although she had not wanted to see the dismembered torso of Dougal Stewart.
‘At least two hours, I’d say.’ Donaldson looked a disappointed man.
‘How did he die?’ Wendy asked, looking at the man sitting in a chair. He looked as if he was asleep.
‘Look at his neck.’
On closer examination, Wendy could see the piano wire wrapped around the man’s throat. ‘Not a good way to go,’ she said.
‘What that man could have told us,’ was Donaldson’s only comment.
***
The situation at Challis Street had become frenetic. They had started with a torso in Regent’s Canal, and now they had four bodies. Only two of them had the name of a murderer against them – Devlin O’Shaughnessy – and that man was not willing to talk.
One thing was clear to Isaac: whoever had murdered Alex Hughenden, it was not O’Shaughnessy; the man had a cast iron alibi as he was locked up in a prison cell.
‘His death is inconvenient,’ Donaldson said on his return to Challis Street Police Station.
‘Any ideas?’ Isaac asked.
‘On who killed him? None.’
‘Why was he murdered?’
‘I’m floundering here. Unless those he reported to were scared that he would speak.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 15
