The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset)

by Phillip Strang

  Chapter 22

  Wendy and Larry, armed with the information they had received at Eton College, headed back to Challis Street Police Station. It was clear that Allerton had maintained contact with his childhood friends Jacob Griffiths and Miles Fortescue, but so far they had not been able to pinpoint Keith Codrington.

  The team were pulled in together on Wendy and Larry’s return. DCS Goddard was present.

  ‘We need to interview Griffiths and Fortescue,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Are they the people running the show?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘We’re not certain. Our suspicions lie with another man.’

  ‘Then call him in.’

  ‘Not so easy. He’s the mystery man.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Keith Codrington, the second cousin of Lord Allerton, was educated at Eton. He’s the same age as Allerton. We’ve been checking his background. Bridget, what do you have?’

  ‘Keith Humphrey Codrington, age forty-two. His father was a doctor, his mother a housewife. He attended Eton College until his eighteenth birthday and then went to Oxford University. He graduated from there with a degree in applied mathematics. After that, he spent many years in the Middle East as a shipping agent. He returned to this country eighteen months ago.’

  ‘What type of shipping?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Oil, one way. Livestock, the other,’ Bridget said.

  ‘As well as drugs?’ Larry speculated.

  ‘There are no criminal cases against Keith Codrington. Also, he’s a member of Mensa.’

  ‘Smart then,’ Goddard said.

  ‘Smart enough to fool us, if he’s our man,’ Isaac said.

  ‘That’s as may be, but we need him and the other two you mentioned in here today. You know the alternatives.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Larry, an update on Walters.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Bridget interjected. ‘They found the Land Rover less than fifty miles from here. The number plate had been changed but the engine number tallies, and there is significant damage to the front of the vehicle.’

  ‘Commensurate with pushing a Bentley off the road?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘They’re checking now, but the advice I’ve received is that it’s possible.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Gordon Windsor is heading out there.’

  ‘Tell the locals to leave the vehicle alone until he gets there. There could still be prints.’

  ‘Do you have an address for Codrington?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘The only address is bogus. We believe he was using aliases.’

  ‘But if he was involved with the other three, they must have been visible.’

  ‘We’re following up on that now,’ Larry said.

  ‘What do we have on Miles Fortescue?’

  ‘We know he’s an MP, and that he’s financially secure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He owns a house in Belgravia.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re going there, or to the Houses of Parliament, after this meeting.’

  ‘Very well. You’d better caution him and bring him to the station.’

  ‘He’ll claim some sort of immunity,’ Wendy said.

  ‘He has no immunity,’ DCS Goddard said. ‘He’s only an MP and not a very effective one at that.’

  ‘The DCS is right. He’s either interviewed in front of his political colleagues or here. It’s up to him.’

  ‘What about Griffiths?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Turn on the television every night. He’s always there,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Apart from his supermarkets, what else do we know about him? Bridget, any updates?’

  ‘Jacob Aloysius Griffiths, age forty-three and the son of a farmer. He left Eton at the age of eighteen and went to agricultural college. He made his first million by the age of twenty, lost it all within one year. After that a succession of businesses, some good, some bad, until he hit the jackpot with supermarkets.’

  ‘Where did you get all that information?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Wikipedia.’

  ‘You’ve only one more day to wrap this up. Are you certain these are the key people?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘It all points to them.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right. Any stuff-ups on this one and you know what happens.’

  ‘I’ve already been there once, sir,’ Isaac replied.’

  ***

  Steve Walters was feeling good. The money he had received for his latest killing had given him enough to plan his future. It had been a few grim weeks hiding out from the police, scurrying around in Manchester, remaining unshaven and not going to the gym. He could feel the flabbiness in his body; he intended to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

  It had not been difficult to travel from where he had been staying, a nondescript hotel in a nondescript suburb in Manchester, over to Derbyshire, only forty minutes to drive if he had been driving a decent car. The man on the end of the phone introduced himself as Zachary. Walters knew it was not his correct name, but what did a name matter; it was what he had to say that was important. ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘What for?’ Walters had asked.

  ‘For what you’re good at.’

  ‘Who?’ There was no need for further explanation. Steve Walters knew only one trade: how to kill a man. A trade that Her Majesty’s Government had taught him well when he had served with the British Army behind enemy lines in Iraq and Afghanistan. He remembered the advertisement for signing up: ‘Join the modern British Army and learn a trade’. He had certainly done that, and it had been most useful. Not only was he adept with a knife and a piece of wire, but he was also good at calculating the force necessary to push a car off the road, and Zachary’s description of the target’s car, a Bentley, told him that it needed something more substantial than a small Toyota. It needed a four-wheel drive; it needed a Land Rover, not that he fancied driving one of them again. He had driven plenty in the army, and they were uncomfortable, and the gearboxes were a disaster.

  ‘How will the money be paid?’ he had asked Zachary.

  ‘Half will be in your bank account within the hour. The remainder on completion.’

  ‘I want it all now.’

  ‘Very well. The full fifty thousand pounds in thirty minutes. You need to be in position within seventy-five.’

  ‘I’ll leave now. I’ll check my account on the way. No money, no death. You savvy?’

  ‘Yes, I fully understand.’

  Codrington then proceeded to describe the area where the accident was to happen. He had visited Allerton’s home many times. He was even godfather to the Allertons’ first child.

  Walters, confident that the British Army had trained him well, took a train to the outskirts of Manchester. He soon found a suitable vehicle and hot-wired it within two minutes. He had to admit that for a Land Rover it was a lot better than the ones he had driven in Iraq, but it was still an uncomfortable trip. Ten minutes later he checked his phone. The fifty thousand pounds was there; the fate of the intended victim was sealed.

  He arrived at the scene and parked on a track to one side, glad for once of the four-wheel drive, as it was muddy from the rain of the last few days. Sitting high up on the hill he had time to think, time to look around. From his vantage point, he could see any vehicles ascending the road towards him, and a Bentley would be distinctive, the sort of car he aspired to, although where he was going it would be incongruous. He double-checked his bank account. With the addition of the fifty thousand pounds, the balance stood at one hundred and thirty-two thousand. It was sufficient, but he could always hire himself out around the world if necessary.

  An old van trundled by, followed by a young couple in an old car. He could see by the way they were entwined around each other that they were looking for somewhere secluded to park.

  He surfed the net on his phone
, keeping one eye peeled. It was not long before the Bentley came into view. Even though the day was overcast and it was starting to rain, the vehicle still shone. He saw the car slowing to turn through the metal gates at the entrance to Allerton Hall. He assumed that was the name of the man he was about to kill.

  Walters waited until the vehicle was almost at a standstill before pulling out at speed from the concealed track. He remembered the look on the man’s face as he hit the Bentley the first time. He saw him attempting to move the car; the gun he carried soon dealt with that problem. The Land Rover, powerful as it was, still struggled to move the Bentley, but eventually, after three attempts, it managed to push it over a low stone wall that had probably been constructed two hundred years ago. Steve Walters watched the vehicle turn over and over, gaining momentum before disappearing over the edge of the quarry.

  He then sped off and headed south. He stopped after thirty minutes and changed the number plates. He realised he had about ninety minutes before the Land Rover would be reported missing. At that time, the owner, a doctor that he knew, would be leaving the hospital at the end of his shift. Only then would he realise his vehicle had been stolen and call the police.

  ***

  Miles Fortescue, an important person in his estimation, did not appreciate two police officers in his office at the Houses of Parliament. ‘What right have you to be here?’ he asked.

  Wendy thought him a rude man who had made a point of not shaking DI Hill’s hand and hers.

  ‘Mr Fortescue, we are investigating the death of Lord Allerton. We are aware that he was a friend of yours,’ Larry said. Both he and Wendy were standing up; Fortescue had his back to the window. He was attempting to look superior; it wasn’t working, at least not with Wendy.

  ‘Timothy Allerton was a friend. His death is tragic.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘Is this important? I’m due in the chamber, a crucial vote.’

  ‘It’s not sitting,’ Wendy said. She had checked.

  ‘We can conduct this at the police station if you prefer.’

  ‘No,’ Fortescue reluctantly said. ‘Here will be all right.’

  ‘This interview will be recorded. Is that acceptable?’ Larry asked as he looked at the man. He was not impressed. Fortescue was only one year older than him, but he looked closer to fifty than forty. He was dressed well in an expensive suit, but his belly strained against the front of his shirt. It was evident to both of the police officers that this man, this representative of the people, enjoyed the finer things in life: good food, good wines and not so good women. Bridget had found out that useful little nugget about his personal life. It was not widely known, nor was the man. Bridget had also looked at his track record as an MP and found it lacking.

  ‘I’ll repeat my previous question,’ Larry said. ‘When was the last time you saw Lord Allerton?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘And your last communication with him?’

  ‘As I said, two weeks ago.’

  ‘Mr Fortescue, we have his phone records. We know that you spoke by phone with Lord Allerton on the day of his death. Do you deny this?’

  ‘Yes, no…’

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘My position here…’ Fortescue mumbled.

  ‘Sir, your position as a member of parliament is not of interest to us. The murder of Lord Allerton is.’

  ‘And mine. He was a friend. I had known him for nearly thirty years. Of course I’m interested in who killed him, but I need to protect my position from any hint of scandal.’

  ‘We are only interested in the death of Lord Allerton. And what do you mean by scandal?’

  ‘Figuratively speaking, you realise. Proven or otherwise, my friendship with a murdered man will raise concerns, questions about my suitability.’

  ‘Are these more important than the death of your friend?’

  ‘No. What do you want to know?’

  Wendy knew the man was feigning interest. It was evident to her that Fortescue was the worst kind of parasite, the type that pretends to be benevolent and caring while sucking its victim dry.

  ‘On the day he died, Lord Allerton was in London. Did you know this?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘He never mentioned it.’

  ‘You said that you spoke to him by phone. What did the two of you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing important. He seemed a little tense, but no more than normal.’

  ‘What do you mean by no more than normal?’

  ‘Allerton was a worrier, that’s all. He always was.’

  ‘Even at Eton?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Even there.’

  ‘Let me come back to his time in London. Did you meet with him?’ Larry asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have a place in Belgravia?’

  ‘That’s on the public record. Ebury Street.’

  ‘Lord Allerton’s Bentley was parked not more than a five-minute walk from your house.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. It’s possible. The man knew other people in London.’

  Fortescue stood up from the chair he had been sitting in. He moved to the window, looked out at the River Thames. Wendy thought the man was trying to get rid of them. She knew that he felt disdain for them, but if he knew Allerton and had met him, it could mean guilt by association. Fortescue may have thought his rank gave him certain protections, but with her and Larry Hill it did not.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Lord Allerton was involved in the importation of illicit drugs into this country.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Fortescue said. ‘He was the most honest man you’d ever meet. He wouldn’t last thirty minutes as a member of parliament.’

  ‘Do you need to be dishonest to be an MP?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘You know what I mean. Here, you need to play the game, bend with the wind, follow the party line. Not always so easy.’

  ‘Coming back to Lord Allerton’s confession,’ Larry said.

  ‘What confession?’

  ‘Lord Allerton phoned our DCI and stated that he was coming into the police station to confess and to name names. Was yours one of those names?’

  Fortescue approached perilously close to Larry. ‘The next time we meet I will be with my lawyer. In the meantime, I will contact Commissioner Davies and make an official complaint. If you’re a police officer next week, it will be more by good luck than anything else. Your career is finished.’

  ‘Is that a threat, sir?’ Larry asked.

  ‘It’s a statement of fact. Now, I suggest you leave before I have you thrown out.’

  Chapter 23

  Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard reacted with alarm when Isaac informed him of his DI and sergeant’s meeting with Miles Fortescue. ‘How can I protect them, you?’ Goddard said. ‘Before it was always Davies trying to exert his influence, look after his own people, but now an official complaint from an MP, no less.’

  ‘He’s involved.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘Not conclusively. We need him to break first.’

  ‘And how do you plan to do that?’

  ‘We keep the pressure on.’

  ‘I thought Serious and Organised Crime Command were dealing with the drug trafficking,’ Goddard said. He was stamping up and down his office on the third floor at Challis Street Police Station. Isaac Cook, his DCI, was standing still, allowing the man the opportunity to vent his spleen. Isaac knew the routine; the man would blow his top for a few minutes and then calm down. Only then could they talk seriously.

  Isaac knew that if his DI and sergeant were suspended pending a full enquiry, then he was threatened, as well as his DCS.

  ‘Give me the facts,’ Goddard said. He had sat down behind his desk.

  ‘Len Donaldson of Serious and Organised Crime Command is working on the drug trafficking. We’re working on the murders. We know who the murderers are: Devlin O’Shaughnessy and Steve Walters.’

  ‘Isn’t that the en
d of your work? Just wrap that up, and our side of the case is complete.’

  ‘O’Shaughnessy’s under lock and key; Walters is still at large.’

  ‘Walters killed Allerton?’

  ‘We found prints on the Land Rover. It’s him alright, and we can prove he killed Hughenden. So far, there is no one that we can prove for the murder of Rodrigo Fuentes.’

  ‘Then catch Walters.’

  ‘Not so easy. We’ve not been able to find him yet.’

  ‘Unless you can prove Fortescue’s direct involvement in the murders, you’ll not win on this one.’

  ‘He’s not our primary suspect.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Keith Codrington, Lord Allerton’s cousin.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘His whereabouts have always been unclear. We haven’t located him yet.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Goddard asked. ‘Every time you put me on the spot. Have I got to take on the commissioner again to save your skin?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid you must. We need the person or persons who ordered the deaths of five people that we know of. They, or he, are more dangerous than those who carried out the crimes. There’s one more person to pressure.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jacob Griffiths.’

  ‘The Jacob Griffiths!’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Make it official. Make sure you interview him at Challis Street and make sure he has legal representation. I don’t want last year’s businessman of the year talking to the media.’

  ‘Yes, sir. By the book.’

  ***

  Jacob Griffiths reluctantly presented himself at Challis Street. The man who accompanied him was tall and thin. He looked expensive.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Isaac said. Len Donaldson stood alongside him.