***
‘Remember me?’ Malcolm said as he stood at the entrance to the terrace house on Kensington Park Road in Holland Park. He was surprised the man had opened the door considering the nature of the business he was involved in.
‘What do you want?’ the man replied in a gruff voice. Big Greg looked at him, remembered the last time he had seen him. Back then, he had been tied to a chair, the man in front of him hovering close, threatening to allow another man to inflict pain on his daughter and then his wife.
‘Think back.’
‘Leave or else.’
‘Or else what? You’ll call the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be too late by then.’
‘Why?’
Big Greg, much larger than the man standing in front of him, pushed forward and closed the door behind him.
‘You’ve no right to accost me in my house. Don’t you know who I am?’
‘I know only too well who you are. A dealer in death, a man sanctioned to extract information, and you don’t care who you threaten or torture. I was one of your victims. Most don’t live, but I did, knowing that one day I would return and deal with you for what you did to me.’
Chapter 10
Isaac was in his car, preparing to leave Challis Street Police Station. It was eight in the evening. The phone call from Larry Hill caused him to turn right instead of left on leaving the carpark.
‘There’s a body,’ Larry had said.
‘Murder?’ Isaac’s reply.
‘It seems that way.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. Gordon Windsor?’
‘I’ve phoned him.’
A neat white-painted terrace house in Holland Park, just the same as all the others along the street. Isaac knew this part of London; it was where the wealthy lived, where he had seen a few too many murders over the years, and now another one.
Sometimes, when he had the time to consider such matters, he wondered what it was with these people. On the face of it they had all that they wanted, yet they indulged in petty squabbles, occasional violence, the occasional murder, the same as everyone else. At least it was a different street this time, although the procedure was the same: establish the crime scene, keep the onlookers away, put on overalls, gloves, and foot protectors.
After more than once being told by Gordon Windsor, Isaac always made sure he had two sets of protective gear in the back of his car.
‘What’s the situation here?’ Isaac asked the uniform at the door.
‘Male, fifty-two, dead.’
‘Anything more?’
‘Just a name.’
‘And?’
‘George Arbuthnot.’
‘Unusual name,’ Isaac replied to the uniform, a young man, new to Challis Street, who obviously was a man of few words. Not that it concerned Isaac. Some were too wordy, and the man had given him the salient facts, would have told him more if he had asked.
‘The man’s been strangled. It’s a messy job,’ Larry said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was tied to a chair in the dining room. There are signs of violence before he was garrotted with fencing wire.’
‘It sounds unpleasant,’ Isaac said as he entered the room, making sure not to impede the crime scene investigators.
‘The man’s been tortured,’ Gordon Windsor said. He had arrived a few minutes before Isaac.
‘Any details?’
‘Looking at the left hand, I’d say the wrist has been broken.’
‘With force?’
‘It seems intentional, and then, if you look at the face, you can see where he has repeatedly been hit, signs of broken teeth.’
‘Was an implement used?’ Larry asked.
The three men stood close to the body. Two of Windsor’s team were nearby, checking for fingerprints, taking samples from the blood splattered on the wall. Nobody in that dining room was in the least perturbed by the sight of the dead man and the fact that he had suffered a painful and needlessly violent death. To them, it was academic.
‘I’d say a mallet used to tenderise meat was used to smash the man’s face, probably used to break the wrist as well.’
‘Any ideas as to the murderer?’
‘That’s the easy one. I can tell you who did this, subject to forensics, that is,’ Windsor said.
‘Your opinion will suffice,’ Isaac said.
‘We found a fingerprint on the mallet.’
‘And?’ Isaac asked, anxious for the man to stop savouring the moment and to give them the answer.
‘It matches a print we found at Robertson’s hostel. Neither print is good enough to run through the Fingerprint’s database, though.’
‘Big Greg?’ Larry said.
‘It’s more than probable, although, without the man, it’s not possible to prove that conclusively.’
Isaac realised that yet again one murder had increased to two. And once that occurred, then there would be more. In this instance, the killing of Arbuthnot was premeditated, as if the man had planned this for some time. It had been assumed with Bob Robertson that the crime had been committed in anger, but there was no way that the body in the chair in front of them, its head angled back, the wire around its neck, was the result of a momentary action. It had the look of a premeditated murder carried out calmly and with care.
‘What do we know about the victim?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not a lot at the present moment,’ Larry said. ‘He was found by the lady who comes in every other day to tidy up. According to her, he was a man who kept to himself.’
‘The housekeeper?’ Isaac asked.
‘She’s in the other room.’
***
A female police constable was with the housekeeper. The two women were sitting on a sofa close to an electric heater, the type that had imitation flames.
‘You found the body?’ Isaac asked. He and Larry had introduced themselves first, excused the policewoman who had left the room.
‘I come here every two days, do my work and leave,’ the housekeeper said. It was evident from her accent that she was not English.
‘Your name is Lena Szabo?’ Isaac asked.
‘Yes. I came here ten years ago with my husband from Hungary. We are English citizens now.’
Larry assumed the woman had mentioned that she was English to forestall the inevitable question about whether she was one of the recent immigrants into the country, some of whom were causing trouble.
‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Two years. I did not know Mr Arbuthnot very well.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I only saw him once or twice a month. Normally, the house was empty when I came here. I’d do my work and leave.’
‘What can you tell us about him?’
‘He paid me well. He was polite, nothing more.’
‘Any friends, what sort of business he was involved in?’
‘Nothing. I did my job and left, that’s all.’
‘You don’t seem upset,’ Larry said.
‘I’ve seen death before.’
‘When?’
‘I was a child in 1956 when the Russians quelled the uprising. I saw the people shot on the street. I saw what happened if the mob got their hands on a member of the secret police.’
‘Did you like Mr Arbuthnot?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not very much.’
‘Why?’
‘He was a cruel man.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘There was a dog next door, always barking. It was poisoned.’
‘Do you believe he poisoned it?’
‘I saw the poison, or what was left of it, in the bin that I emptied. He did not know that I had seen it.’
‘Yet you continued to work for him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘One dog is nothing compared to seeing tens of people, some of them were my age, gunned down as they waited to buy bread. You have
seen death, you must understand.’
Isaac could only agree with the woman. The sight of a man with wire around his neck, a decomposed and dismembered corpse, a man fished out of the river after three weeks weighted down. None of them had upset him greatly, none had disturbed his appetite or his nights out. He had to concede the woman’s disinterest in the dead body.
***
With Big Greg almost certainly back in the area, Isaac told Katrina Ireland to be on the lookout.
The man was now regarded as violent, likely to kill again, but so far they had no motive. Bob Robertson ran a hostel for the disadvantaged, George Arbuthnot, it was found out, was a retired civil servant. No connection could be established between the two men.
Robertson was known to be a compassionate man; Arbuthnot was not if the dog poisoning story was true, and there was no reason to doubt the housekeeper’s statement. Bridget, as per the standard procedure, had checked out Lena Szabo’s story, and it was found to be correct. She and her husband had entered England ten years previously, worked hard, been granted citizenship, and were respected members of the community.
George Arbuthnot, however, remained a mystery. Bridget had conducted the usual checks: age, background, financial status, employment. What they had shown was that the man had been a middle-ranking civil servant, yet he lived in a house, with a clear title in his name, that would have been way out of his pay scale.
‘Bridget, what do we know about Arbuthnot, apart from the usual?’ Isaac asked. The last few weeks of regular hours were gone. Wendy knew it would be back to the early morning meetings where the core team would meet in the DCI’s office to discuss the way forward.
Larry Hill knew that his wife’s macrobiotic diets and the meals she prepared for him every day in plastic containers would not suffice; he’d be sneaking in the extra meal here and there to survive the day. An early morning English breakfast, heavy on the stomach, good for energy, would see him through, and no doubt a few drinks in the pub to loosen the tongues of anyone willing to talk. Isaac knew it would be affecting his love life again, which he regretted to some extent, but not as much as he thought it should. And as for Bridget, she’d have the office computer, the files to prepare, the spreadsheets to set up; to her that was heaven. She knew she’d be in the office bright and early, leaving late. Isaac knew, as he always did, that none of them would let him down.
‘I’ve set up an all points for the man,’ Larry said.
‘There’s only one problem,’ Wendy said.
‘What’s that?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’d organised a door-to-door in the area of Arbuthnot’s house. We know the approximate times when Big Greg entered the house and when he left, within a few hours either way.’
‘What were the results?’
‘We’ve a few more streets to conclude today, but one thing is clear. No vagrant or homeless person knocked on Arbuthnot’s door.’
‘Conclusive?’ Isaac asked.
‘Ninety per cent, I’d say. Some high-fliers live down there, some politicians. As a result, the security in the area is tight. Apart from the police keeping a watch on the area, some of the occupants have contracted local security firms to keep roving twenty-four-hour patrols in the area. Anyone fitting the description of Big Greg would not have got within one hundred yards of Arbuthnot’s house.’
‘What does that mean?’ Larry asked.
‘The man is no longer dressed the way he was,’ Wendy replied.
‘Which means?’
‘It’s fairly obvious. The homeless act was just that. He’s now back dressed as you and I.’
‘But why?’ Isaac asked. ‘It makes no sense, none of it.’
‘That doesn’t matter, does it, guv?’ Wendy said. ‘What’s important is that he’s back, he’s murdering people for a reason, and he’ll not stop.’
‘Not again,’ Isaac said. He could see Goddard and then the commissioner on the warpath again. He wished he was back on holiday in Jamaica.
‘Any idea what the man looks like now?’ Larry asked.
‘We’re checking. It’s possible we’ll be able to come up with something,’ Wendy said.
‘Work with Bridget on this. It’s our priority now,’ Isaac said.
‘And you, guv?’
‘I’ll need to tell our senior. It’s better for him to hear it from me than Commissioner Davies.’
‘How will he know?’ Bridget asked.
‘He’s got someone in Challis Street keeping him updated.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Not yet.’
***
Big Greg had not enjoyed torturing Arbuthnot, but he had done what was necessary. The man had secrets that needed to be revealed. It had surprised him how easy it had been.
In the past, when he had been on the receiving end of Arbuthnot and the other man’s skills, he had endured for days, but then he had a reason to keep quiet, a reason to take the pain, but what did his torturer have, apart from a depressingly affluent house?
Big Greg reflected on his house from all those years before. How there would always be a flower in a vase, a crayon drawing of his daughter’s held onto the fridge door with a magnet. And how his daughter would fling her arms around his neck when he came in after work, and he’d swing her around, being chastised by the mother for getting the girl excited just before her bedtime.
Happy memories of a reality long gone, and now it had all been replaced by anger and hatred and the need to inflict pain and suffering on those who had forced him to live a life of disgust and loathing. Arbuthnot had been the first, he would not be the last.
He wondered if the years and the anguish were driving him mad, but he knew they were not. He could see it all so clearly: the need to retrieve all of his notes from where they were stored, not to allow anyone to get in his way. And then he had to let his daughter know that her father still loved her and that he would protect her.
He had to admit that he enjoyed being back again, and the small flat that he had rented was adequate for his purposes. The laptop with its Wi-Fi was keeping him up to date on the current situation, especially those who needed to be dealt with. It was unfortunate that some, those he had worked with, were innocent of any guilt other than they may find the solution.
The others, who had set up the research team, convincing in their argument that their results would only be used for peaceful purposes, yet knowing full well that its funding was military, deserved special treatment.
But even if he completed his task, would it be sufficient to ensure that no one would attempt to solve the technical problems, whether in England or overseas? People were becoming more educated, and computers more capable of processing the millions of computations that would be required, and there was no way the military in his country or any other would ever acquiesce to his request to leave well alone.
It had been only eleven years on the street, yet when he looked in the mirror he saw an old man. He looked at the picture of himself that he had carried in that old coat for so many years: a photo of him with his wife and daughter. Then he had been a young man, fit and robust with a healthy tan, but now his skin was weakened, his features not so well defined. He knew that if he stood in front of his wife, she would not instantly recognise him, nor would her husband, one of those that he needed to kill. For her sake, he did not want to, but there were more important considerations.
Big Greg decided that his wife’s husband would be next. He took a beer from the fridge, a luxury he had denied himself on the street. He opened the bottle and took a swig, the first of many that night. He turned on the television; a mind-numbing movie of no great worth, but for once, nonsense was better than the reality. For that evening, he would forget.
Chapter 11
Wendy had finally had some success. For a police officer with a formidable reputation inside Challis Street Police Station, as well as in the other stations in the area, her inability to trace Big Greg had been an embarrassment to her.
Isaac had told her to keep looking and to ignore the occasionally barbed jibe in her direction, as Isaac knew they were obliquely directed at him. The eloquent black man was the bane of one or two of the older inhabitants of the police station who still harboured attitudes not in line with society in general. Isaac had learnt to deal with them, but now there was some deflection onto those who supported him. No doubt admirers of Commissioner Davies, he assumed, a man who did not conceal his dislikes too well, and a man anxious to get DCI Caddick back into Challis Street. The last Isaac had heard of the man he was assigned to a regional police station to the north of London and generally upsetting those he worked for, as well as producing limited results. But somehow Caddick continued to prosper, and the last word was that he was likely to make superintendent within the next six months, a clear sign that friends in high places were always beneficial.
Isaac assumed it was the result of sucking up to seniors you neither liked nor respected. He was glad he didn’t have to do it. If he didn’t like someone, he was not good at pretending, but Goddard was, although the results were not good for him. The man had been passed over for the rank of commander on more than one occasion; the usual reasons given were budgets, experience, age.
Politics did not only have a place in the Houses of Parliament; they were also alive and well in the Met, an august organisation that prided itself on its fair-mindedness, its willingness to bring in all colours, all religions, all genders, even those who were openly gay. Not that Isaac minded, as he had prospered due to the political correctness, but he had noticed the percentages of those being promoted who were deemed not to be Anglo-Saxon and white had slipped under Davies’s watch. It was only fractional, but Isaac kept a watch on such issues, knowing full well that if Davies were not there, then Goddard would take the next rung up the ladder towards commissioner, and he, Isaac Cook, would almost certainly make superintendent, then commander, and ultimately commissioner.
It was only four years previously that he had been shown on publicity promotions to join the modern police force. There he had been, his beaming face proudly proclaiming that the Met embraced all people and that he was committed to the organisation, yet now he sometimes felt that he did not belong. Still, he had no intention of complaining, and there was a murder investigation to conclude.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Page 30
