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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I saw him running out of the building with it. He jumped into a car and drove off.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘He was dressed in a dark suit. Shorter than you, taller than me.’

  ‘Hair colour, clean-shaven, walked with a limp?’ Big Greg asked.

  ‘He was running, so I assume he didn’t have a limp. And yes, his hair was brown and he was clean-shaven. He was about forty to forty-five years of age. Do you know him?’

  ‘I know who he works for.’

  ‘Do you intend to kill me?’ Katrina asked.

  You must do something for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You must tell the inspector you’ve been speaking to.’

  ‘Which one? DI Hill or DCI Cook?’

  ‘DCI Cook.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘You must repeat this exactly, is that understood?’

  ‘You’re hurting me again.’

  ‘Sorry, but this is important. You must tell your police officer that he must not investigate the contents of the notebook.’

  ‘He’ll ask why.’

  ‘Tell him that people have died for what it contains and that more will die, including the police, if they attempt to understand was it written, or if other people know about it.’

  ‘That’s not how the police work. You’ve committed a murder. They’ll take no notice.’

  ‘Then I will not be responsible for the consequences.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Katrina asked.

  ‘You must tell the police that they are dealing with matters beyond their understanding, matters that will get them killed.’

  ‘If you give yourself up, you can tell them.’

  ‘They’ll not believe me. I must remain free.’

  ‘To kill others?’

  ‘I must protect you and the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘Thousands, maybe millions of people.’

  ‘You realise that what you are saying sounds crazy.’

  ‘If I told you, you would not understand. Why do you think I live as I do? Do you think I enjoy it?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it. Everyone on the street has a story, the same as you.’

  ‘No one else on the street knows what I do. I suggest you do not leave here for thirty minutes.’

  ‘And if I do?’

  ‘I know where you are.’

  Katrina sat on the bench as she watched the unkempt man move away. She could see his head down, his shoulders hunched. The man had sounded serious, as if he knew what he was talking about. He could have just been another crazy on the street, but she didn’t think so. For whatever reason, she’d give him the thirty minutes he had requested.

  ***

  Big Greg knew one thing as he walked away from the woman: he’d need to change. He had given a warning to the police, but no details. And besides, the details would not be for their understanding, and they’d only follow the official procedure of a murder investigation.

  He knew that they would not hold back, but he knew that he had to do it, to ease his conscience. He regretted that he had murdered Bob Robertson, realising that taking the notebook and the computer would have been the best solution, but he had been angry that a man he had trusted had betrayed him. It had not been the first time that he had been betrayed, and would not be the last either. His wife had betrayed him with another man, although she did not know that. His colleagues, all those years before, had betrayed him when he had warned them of the consequences of continuing their research, and the young female had betrayed him by coming close to the solution. He regretted that he had killed, knowing that if those who had stolen the computer could be found, he would have to kill them as well. And what did the computer have? Titbits of the solution gleaned from his discarded notebook, useless to anyone who did not understand what they meant or how to link the scribblings to make them complete.

  The only problem that Bob Robertson had caused was to let them know that he was still alive. They had traced the computer at the hostel because of a formula entered in the search bar; they would find him.

  Big Greg looked at himself in a shop window; saw a man of the street, a vagrant, a person of little worth. He knew it was time. He walked away from the area and headed south. He needed distance, he needed another hostel that would take him in, somewhere that would not ask questions.

  ***

  It was two hours, almost to the minute, before Katrina Ireland presented herself at Challis Street Police Station; two hours too late according to Isaac after she had recounted her story.

  He had to admit she sounded plausible in that she had not been looking for Big Greg; he had been looking for her, and there had never been any suspicion focussed on the woman. Quite the contrary, in that even in the short time she had been running the hostel, she had been doing a good job, some said even better than the previous manager who could be prickly with those who did not adhere to the rules. Not that Katrina was a pushover, everybody knew that. Too many years rattling around the underbelly of the city, where she had encountered more than her fair share of gangsters, perverts, and malignant, misogynist men who felt they were doing her a favour when they gave her their money in exchange for using her body however they wanted. Some had wanted straight sex, some wanted to be tied up, some had wanted…

  Katrina did not want to think about some of the acts she had been asked to perform, to inflict. Even at her most drugged, she had still known what degradation and abuse and violence were. Not that she had experienced them since she had cleaned herself up, and now with the hostel, they’d be no more. No more of anything, other than a life of contemplation, a life of peace, a life of serving the community. It was a strange feeling to her, and she realised that if Bob Robertson had not died, she may have deviated, ended up on the slippery path back to oblivion and self-loathing. She knew she could only thank the man for what he had done for her.

  Visiting the police station where she had spent the occasional night locked up in a cell, to be fined the next day by a local magistrate, was not something that Katrina contemplated as her idea of fun. She’d have preferred to have not been there, but her meeting with Big Greg had left her more than a little disturbed. Whereas the man had not mistreated her, apart from his firm grip on her arm, he had been threatening.

  He had a message, she knew she had to pass it on, even if she did not know what it meant.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Isaac said as he welcomed her into his office. ‘Coffee, tea?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I can’t stay long, there’s plenty to do before the nighttime rush.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve seen Big Greg.’

  ‘When?’

  Two hours ago, no more than half a mile from here.’

  ‘You’ve taken your time to tell us. Any reason?’

  ‘He asked for thirty minutes before I reported to you.’

  ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘I was frightened.’

  ‘Maybe it’s best if you give me the full story.’

  ‘Okay. I was taking a walk. I’ve been in the hostel solid since Bob’s death. I just felt like some fresh air.’

  ‘Around here?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Anyway, I’m walking down the street minding my own business when Big Greg comes alongside.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He grabs my arm and pulls me towards a bench.’

  ‘You resisted?’

  ‘I could see the look in his eyes, and he was gripping me firmly.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He admitted to killing Bob.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘He said that he had killed him and that he would commit the same crime again.’

  ‘He sounds like a psychopath.’

  ‘He’s not. I know what they’re like, but he was sane, just determined.’

  ‘But why murder?’

  ‘He was very clear in that the murder of one o
r two people was minor compared to the cost of the truth. He called it the secret.’

  ‘What secret?’

  ‘The secret in that notebook and on Bob’s computer. I didn’t understand what he meant, other than he was adamant that you are messing with something dangerous.’

  ‘I’ve seen the formulas and the technical drawings. None of us has a clue as to what they mean. Did he say more?’

  ‘He said for you to stop investigating what they meant.’

  ‘But there’s been a murder. We can hardly walk away on the advice of the murderer.’

  ‘I told him that.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He just reiterated what he had said before.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. He left me there and walked away. That’s the last I saw of him. He’d scared me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to come here, but it seemed important. He’ll kill again. I just don’t want anyone’s death to be on my conscience because I didn’t tell you.’

  Chapter 8

  With the admission of guilt, even if only to a third party, the department’s activity to find the missing man continued. As usual, DCS Goddard was in the thick of it: advising Isaac on how to organise his team, phoning up Commissioner Alwyn Davies to update him on his success in identifying the culprit. Isaac, as the SIO, did not appreciate his DCS taking the credit, and besides, they may have had a tentative confession, but they certainly did not have the man.

  Larry Hill and Wendy Gladstone were on the hunt, but there was nothing. It had been two hours from Big Greg leaving Katrina Ireland to her arriving at Challis Street, then fifteen minutes while she told her story.

  By the time Larry and Wendy arrived at the bench where the murderer and the hostel manager had met, nearly three hours had transpired. Gordon Windsor sent over some members of his team, established the bench and the small park as a crime scene, and then checked for fingerprints, as well as combing through the uncut grass. They didn’t find very much, other than proof that people did not clean up after their dogs had defecated when no one was looking, and that a park bench is a great place to deposit chewing gum after it’s given all its flavour. Fingerprints had been thought to be a possibility, but none were found.

  Wendy had organised some uniforms to ask around the area. One woman remembered a homeless man wandering down the road but no more, certainly not enough to formulate a direction and a possible search area.

  Bridget, back at the station, put out an updated all points warning for the man, but the description of tall, vagrant, dirty, overweight did not help much, and no one believed it would come to anything.

  ‘Stuffed it again, is that it?’ Richard Goddard said as he sat in Isaac’s office.

  ‘Hardly, sir. We’ve got a confession.’ Isaac had grown tired of his boss always criticising when it was not required. As far as the DCI was concerned, the case was progressing well. A murder confession was normally the last thing that was obtained, but this time the murderer had admitted his guilt without any coercion, which seemed strange in itself.

  ‘You’ve one murder, one murderer. This is an easy one, looks good for the department if you bring him in.’

  Looks good for you, Isaac thought as he looked over at Goddard, a man who had treated him well in the past but who now seemed more interested in furthering his own career.

  Not that Isaac could blame him, as the man had been overlooked a few times for the promotion up to commander. The first time, it had been political, the highest echelons of government holding him back, but after that it had been Commissioner Alwyn Davies, a man who did not like sycophants or people smarter than him, and especially anyone who could threaten his position. Already, with less than two years in the job, questions were being asked about the commissioner’s suitability, and not only by the rank and file of the London Metropolitan Police, but also by the mainstream media outlets, the newspapers, the television stations. After a couple of terrorist incidents – a stabbing frenzy by a group of homegrown militants when three people had died, and then a car bomb that had exploded in a shopping centre killing six people, one a child under two – there was often criticism of the commissioner, whose mandate included terrorism.

  Isaac could see the problem, as could his super. Alwyn Davies had attempted to bring in his stooge, DCI Caddick, to run the Challis Street Homicide department, not because he was the best man for the job, but because he was Davies’s man. Other departments had not been so successful in stopping Davies from interfering, and substandard, sometimes blatantly incompetent, people had been put in charge: Counter Terrorism Command, for example.

  The previous head of that department had been pre-emptive, and although that approach had not always succeeded, there had been fewer attacks under his watch, but now he was sitting out his time in public relations, drawing his salary, and keeping his mouth shut. One politician in Westminster, well respected, had stood up at Question Time and put it to the prime minister that it was time for Davies to be removed and for the previous head of Counter Terrorism Command to take his place. The question had been met with a rousing response of ‘hear, hear’ from the Opposition’s side of the chamber, which meant that the prime minister was forced to support the current commissioner. However, behind closed doors the prime minister had hauled his Minister of State for Policing, Fire and Criminal Justice into his office, and told him to make sure that the Opposition politician’s idea was implemented.

  ‘Just make it look as though it was our idea, not his,’ the prime minister said. ‘I don’t want the opposite side of the House claiming credit. You’ve got three months, and make sure you put some tough bastard in charge of terrorism.’

  Isaac knew this through Goddard, who was well aware of the situation, playing his cards close to his chest, angling to ensure that Counter Terrorism Command had a new name on its commander’s door, namely Richard Goddard. Isaac knew the man would succeed.

  ***

  As he had walked away from Katrina Ireland, Big Greg felt a great sorrow. It was not often that he showed any emotion, other than the impression of affability and contentment with being on the street for so many years. But he knew the truth: it was a veneer, necessary in its entirety.

  He reflected on what had been, when he had been an upright citizen with a loving wife, and a daughter the apple of his eye, but he could only blame himself for his current predicament. He could have just given them the formulas and the drawings, the completed solution; sometimes he wished he had, but what then? An accident, insufficient research into stabilising the weapon, whether it was used for peaceful purposes or not?

  Liz Hardcastle had been a decent person, but he had pushed her in front of a speeding train. Bob Robertson had been a good man, but he had died at his hands. There would be more, he knew that, as certain as he was aware that those who had tortured him in the past would return. Didn’t they have Robertson’s computer? Proof that their monitoring equipment had picked up the formula that had been entered into the search bar.

  There was one thing Big Greg knew, even if it cost him his life: he had to protect his family, even reveal himself to them if it was necessary, and inevitably kill for them.

  It had been a long walk, twelve hours slogging down back streets, attempting to avoid the main roads, but finally he reached his destination, a charitable institution that he had used once before. He entered, spoke briefly to the man in charge, and walked up the stairs.

  ***

  It had been three weeks, an eternity according to Isaac’s boss, not so much time according to Isaac and his team. Since Bob Robertson’s death, and Big Greg’s admission to Katrina Ireland, nothing more had happened. Further searching by Larry and Wendy had found that the man was known in other areas of London, although for the last five or six years he had always been close to Challis Street.

  Some others, especially those who lived on the street, spoke of him when asked, although they had not been able to shed any light on the man except that
he kept to himself, recited poetry, and was forever writing. Big Greg’s notebook had been looked over by experts, yet they had gained little from it, other than the formulas and the drawings were complicated, the meaning of them obscure, and what he had written was disjointed and fragmentary, almost as if they were in code.

  Others, in a location some distance from London, were not in the same situation. They had the stolen computer, old and worthy of scrapping, but very little else apart from a formula in the search bar.

  Katrina Ireland, the happiest she had ever been, had made significant improvements to the hostel, now named in honour of the man who had set it up. She’d even been interviewed by a local radio station, and although she had been nervous, she had done well.

  She would have preferred it if they hadn’t mentioned her past history, but they had. On reflection, she had to admit that it wasn’t such a big deal: a woman redeemed and brought back from the brink. A local newspaper wanted to run a similar story, but she had managed to talk them out of it. Her past was behind her, and whereas it could not be blocked from her memory, she did not want to be reminded of it too often. One of the homeless men, after becoming aware of her background, had propositioned her, only to be evicted from the hostel.

  She knew she ran a tough ship, but she also ran it with kindness; be nice to her, and she’d be nice in return. The local vicar had expressed concern about her past as apparently some of the old biddies in his congregation did not like the idea of a former prostitute running a hostel or of her taking church funds if they were available, but Katrina had met with them and they had relented, even embraced her like a lost daughter. Katrina had been moved by the women’s change of heart towards her, as her relationship with her mother were non-existent and not likely to change. She had even started going to church every Sunday, the hostel demands permitting. The vicar quoting Luke 15:10 – ‘In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents’ – the first time she went seemed to be directed at her.