DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Not at the expense of a murder investigation,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The accountants only understand the bottom line. They are out of touch with reality, but unfortunately we all have to contend with them.’

  Isaac knew that it was rhetoric and that Richard Goddard would keep the wolves at bay. And besides, the department's key performance indicators were good. The last three cases they had found the murderer and ensured a conviction within an acceptable time period.

  ‘We are conscious of budgetary restraints,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Fine. Montague Grenfell seems the easiest case to solve,’ DCS Goddard said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need an arrest within ten days.’

  ‘Why ten days, sir?’

  ‘I am to make a presentation to the prime minister on the modern police force. I intend to use your department as an example.’

  ‘It will not be possible to present the current case, sir.’

  ‘Understood. Unofficially, off the record, I can.’

  ‘We will do our best.’

  ‘Budgetary cuts?’ Larry asked after DCS Goddard had left.

  ‘Rhetoric,’ Isaac replied. ‘I’ve known the man for many years. If we keep doing our job, he will make sure we are left alone.’

  ‘Our jobs are secure?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Totally. Larry, you’d better chase up on that grille.’

  ‘Five minutes, and I’m out of the door.’

  ‘If we don’t meet again, 2 p.m. tomorrow afternoon at St Agnes.’

  ‘We’ll all be there,’ Larry said. Bridget nodded her head.

  ***

  The sign over the door said ‘O’Reilly’s Metal Fabricators’, although thirty years previously it had said Dennison. Larry was not optimistic.

  ‘No computers back then,’ Sean O’Reilly, a big blustery man with a beer belly proudly extending at his front, said. He used braces to keep his trousers up, as his waist and a belt did not provide an adequate restraint against the laws of gravity.

  ‘I appreciate it’s a long shot, but I need to try,’ Larry explained. He had shown his ID badge on arrival, been afforded a friendly welcome and a quick tour of the facilities.

  ‘Not much has changed in thirty years, apart from the computers. The majority of the work is manual labour, and it’s hard to find any of the younger generation interested now.’

  ‘Is it just you?’

  ‘I have one man, but he’s part time now. A bit long in the tooth, he’s pushing seventy, and he’s not much use really.’

  ‘Why keep him on?’

  ‘He’s been here forever, even before my time, and I need the help. Once I go, the place will close down.’

  ‘Your offsider, would he be able to remember back to 1987?’ Larry asked.

  ‘He’ll be here within the hour. You can ask him then.’

  Larry took the opportunity to grab a coffee and a sandwich in a small café not far from O’Reilly’s.

  ‘Tom’s in the office,’ Sean O’Reilly told Larry, having found him in the café.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘It’s the only place nearby. I always come here for my lunch,’ O’Reilly said. Larry had assumed that the man always indulged in a pub lunch, but chose not to comment.

  The two men walked the short distance back to O’Reilly’s premises.

  ‘This is Tom Wellings,’ O’Reilly said.

  ‘Please to meet you, Detective Inspector.’

  Larry observed a small, sprightly man who had stood up rapidly on his arrival. The face etched with lines showed a healthy tan, no doubt from years of standing outside in the yard where the metal was stored, or leaning over a fabrication with a welding torch in his hand.

  ‘How long have you been here, Tom?’

  ‘Ever since I left school. It must be fifty years at least.’

  ‘Don’t you ever feel like retiring?’ Larry asked, making general conversation before asking the important questions.

  ‘To do what? Go fishing, play golf?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Not for me. I will keep working until they take me out of here in a wooden box. Anyway, Sean pays me enough to pay for my drinks.’

  ‘You don’t look like a drinker.’

  ‘Drink me under the table, will our Tom,’ Sean O’Reilly said.

  ‘Tom, in 1987 a metal grille was installed at an address on Bellevue Street. Do you remember that job?’

  ‘Business was booming back then. I would not be able to remember that far back, or at least, specific jobs.’

  ‘Is there any way to jog your memory?’

  ‘We used to store the job cards and the accounts up in the roof when they were no longer needed. Fire hazard, I suppose, if the truth is known. They may still be there.’

  ‘Can we look?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Sean O’Reilly said. ‘I’ve not been up there, so it won’t be too pleasant.’

  ‘Let’s look anyway.’

  Tom led the way. At the top of the old building, there was a small door into a roof cavity. Sean O’Reilly fetched a hacksaw to remove the lock that was secured to the door.

  ‘What a mess,’ Larry said.

  All that could be seen in the light of Larry’s phone was a mass of papers. The smell was overpowering. All three men retreated for fresh air.

  ‘Are you certain it is in there?’ Larry asked Tom.

  ‘Old man Dennison was a stickler for keeping paperwork. He thought it may be needed someday for another job.’

  ‘Old man?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Back then I was only in my twenties. Bill Dennison was in his sixties. I suppose that makes me Old Man Wellings now.’

  ‘You? Old? Never,’ Sean O’Reilly said.

  ‘I will need to get some people from Challis Street. Is that okay by you?’

  ‘Sure,’ O’Reilly said. ‘You’re welcome to whatever you can find.’

  Larry phoned Gordon Windsor.

  Early the next morning two juniors from Gordon Windsor’s department arrived at Sean O’Reilly’s premises. Larry pitied them the task ahead. He stayed with them until midday and then excused himself. He had a funeral to attend.

  The two juniors by that time were cursing, but as Larry had observed, they were diligent in their approach. The paperwork they retrieved was being placed carefully in containers for transportation. It would take five to six hours to complete the retrieval. From there on, it would be a case of sifting through the papers looking for 1987 and Bellevue Street and number 54.

  ***

  The church was only two streets from Wendy’s house. She arrived dressed in black, her two sons on either side of her. Bridget walked behind them.

  Isaac had arrived early, as had DCS Goddard. Both men wore black suits. Larry came a little later, as he had picked up his wife. She had met Wendy once, instantly liked her, and wanted to be present.

  Mavis Richardson, who had come to know Wendy during her visits to her house, sat at the rear of the church on her own. Isaac thought it a decent gesture from a woman who was in mourning herself. Firstly, for Gertrude Richardson, then Montague Grenfell, and lastly, Ger O’Loughlin, her ex-husband. News of his death had been phoned through to Larry by his daughter earlier in the morning.

  Everyone was in the church when the coffin arrived. The priest, an elderly, grey-haired man, conducted the service. He was a softly-spoken man, his voice ideal for the solemnity of the occasion, although Isaac thought that at any other time his monotone would put everyone to sleep. Both sons and Bridget rose from their seats to give a bible reading.

  Isaac shed a tear, as did the other members of the department. Once the coffin had left with the immediate family following the hearse in their cars, the others filed out of the church.

  Isaac noticed that Mavis Richardson had left promptly, her BMW moving down the road.

  Wendy’s house had not been suitable for the wake. A hall adjoining the church had been hired. Wendy ret
urned from the burial later in the afternoon. Isaac gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, as did Larry’s wife. Larry gave her a hug, as did DCS Goddard.

  She thanked everyone, especially their DCS.

  The wake was not a time for mourning, more a time for celebration for the life of Wendy’s husband.

  Both sons made brief speeches.

  Isaac was asked to speak on behalf of the police department, as a special request from Wendy. He was used to public speaking, having been involved in enough press conferences in his time. He had even been on television, met the prime minister on a couple of occasions.

  Isaac spoke about Wendy’s husband, his achievements in life, his devoted wife, his two sons. He said that her husband had supported his wife, an invaluable member of the London Metropolitan Police. It was a nice touch to the day’s proceedings. Wendy thanked him later.

  Eventually, the wake concluded, and Isaac left. He had wanted to meet up with Katrina, but it was too late. He would see her the following day, murder enquiry permitting.

  Chapter 23

  The following morning, Larry visited the two juniors who were busy sifting through the papers in a room at the back of Challis Street Police Station. Their mood was not much better than the day before.

  Larry brought two coffees from a local café, hopeful that it would lighten the mood. ‘What have you found?’ he asked.

  ‘Apart from a total mess?’ a young woman in her twenties said. Larry thought she looked too young to be a qualified crime scene investigator, or maybe he was starting to get old. He was in his early forties, and the junior police officers straight out of police college were looking young to him. He did not like the idea of getting old, which explained why he and his wife were into a vegan diet and macrobiotics and anti-oxidants.

  He thought their interest in the subject may be helping, but he and his wife were still getting older. He wondered if Tom Wellings, the seventy-year-old employee of Sean O’Reilly, had the right idea.

  Here was a man who had led a good life, stress-free, and still had the ability to down the pints of a night time. Nowadays, Larry started to feel woozy after two pints, but apparently Wellings was good for six, and the next day he would be at work early, none the worse for wear.

  Larry picked up some old order books, browned and covered in dust, to see if he could help.

  ‘We have a system here,’ an obviously well-fed man in his thirties said. Larry had seen him at O’Reilly’s, attempting to take control of the retrieval operation. The young lady assisting him had taken little notice of him, and she had been collecting from one side of the roof cavity, he from the other. To Larry, personality counted for a lot, the ability to get on with your fellow worker was vital. It was clear that the man with the expanding waistline, even though he was still young, had very little in the way of personality and little to recommend him.

  ‘Rose, watch what you’re doing,’ Duncan said, a little too loudly for Larry.

  ‘You mind your side of the room, I’ll mind mine,’ Rose said. It was clear she had the measure of her colleague.

  ‘What have you found?’ Larry asked for the second time. Both Duncan and Rose had stopped work for a few minutes. Duncan took the opportunity to pop outside for a cigarette.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Rose said to Larry when it was just the two of them in the room.

  ‘Fancy himself, does he?’

  ‘And any loose piece of skirt.’

  ‘Has he hit on you?’

  ‘He’s tried. Not a chance.’

  ‘Apart from your colleague, what have you found?’

  ‘There is paperwork dating back to the sixties. It had basically just been thrown in there, collecting dust and spiders’ webs, and God knows how many dust mites.’

  ‘1987 is the year we are after,’ Larry reminded her.

  ‘Not so easy. We can only sift through in a logical manner. No point diving in here and there.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Larry said. He was enjoying his conversation with the young lady.

  ‘We need a couple of days. Some of the paperwork, especially the work orders, are in very poor condition, eaten through by dust mites, and the rats had made a home in there at some time in the past.’

  ‘Fine. Let me know when you find anything of interest.’

  Duncan returned, bringing the smell of stale cigarettes with him. ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  Larry left the pair of them to the task, glad to be out of the room with the stuffy old smell. He took a deep breath on exiting, taking in the fresh air. The weather was getting colder, and he knew that Wendy would soon be feeling the aches and pains in her body, the signs of increasingly debilitating arthritis.

  She had taken a couple of days off after her husband’s funeral, but he knew she would be back in the office the next day. Larry liked the woman a lot. Sure, she smoked terrible cigarettes, her diet was certainly not vegan or macrobiotic, but she was energetic and enthusiastic and determined. He had to admire that in a person.

  He was still not sure about his relationship with his DCI. He knew that Isaac was competent and loyal to his staff, Wendy’s elevation to sergeant testament to that fact. He also knew that Isaac was ambitious and determined to solve their current case as soon as possible.

  ***

  Isaac was not in a good mood on Larry’s arrival at the office. ‘Mavis Richardson is dead,’ he said.

  ‘Suspicious?’ Larry’s reply.

  ‘Gordon Windsor is on his way out to her house.’

  ‘The woman was eighty-five.’

  ‘You know what this means?’ Isaac said. ‘All those who could have killed Garry Solomon or knew the reason for his murder are now dead, every last one of them.’

  Larry understood what his DCI was saying. Chasing Garry Solomon’s murderer was of less interest than resolving who had pushed Montague Grenfell down the stairs outside his office, and if Mavis Richardson’s death was suspicious, then somebody knew something about the past.

  ‘It’s all related to the death of Garry Solomon, I’m sure of it.’ Isaac, like many an experienced police officer, especially in a murder investigation, had developed a sixth sense that defied logic. Larry knew he did not have it yet.

  ‘Even Montague Grenfell’s death is proving difficult,’ Larry said.

  ‘It shouldn’t be,’ Isaac replied. ‘We know it was a man he scuffled with, the shoe size found at the top of the stairs proves that. And a woman would not have had the strength, or should I say, any of the women we know of in this case.’

  ‘Anyone else out there that we don’t know of, sir?’

  ‘Call me Isaac. At least, when we’re alone.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, Isaac.’ Larry was pleased that their relationship had developed enough to allow first names to be used.

  ‘I still don’t understand why Montague Grenfell was killed,’ Isaac said. ‘He was the one person who had full knowledge of the Grenfells’ and Richardsons’ finances and legal matters. Without him, who is going to take over? Is there anyone else capable?’

  ‘You’ve always suspected that he knew more than he was telling,’ Larry reminded Isaac.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All families have skeletons in the cupboard. Facts they would prefer not known.’

  ‘And we can assume that the Richardsons and Grenfells had more than most.’

  ‘And Montague Grenfell would have had the dirt on everyone, whether he chose to use it or not.’

  ‘Don’t you think we would have found out whether he had used it to his own advantage by now?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Why? Montague was careful to cover his tracks, keep all details to himself. Maybe the others didn’t know they were being manipulated.’

  ‘You believe that he could have been cheating the others, and they didn’t know?’

  ‘It’s possible. What has Bridget’s man come up with?’

  ‘Nothing, other than Montague Grenfell was meticulous. He appears to have acted hon
ourably at all times.’

  ‘Sounds like a nomination for sainthood to me, Isaac,’ Larry said. A sceptical man, he did not trust people with no vices, no apparent failings.

  ‘You’re right,’ Isaac conceded. ‘There has to be something about him.’

  ‘Keith Dawson has been helping Bridget with Grenfell’s records. We need him here.’

  ***

  Gordon Windsor phoned Isaac. ‘Heart attack. I will arrange for the pathologist to confirm, but she was old. I doubt if they will find anything suspicious.’

  ‘Thanks. We are up against a brick wall with this case,’ Isaac replied, venting his frustrations with the crime scene examiner.

  ‘Everyone dying or dead?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Anyone still alive?’

  ‘Only three now. Gertrude Richardson’s grandson, the incumbent Lord Penrith and Garry Solomon’s wife.’

  ‘Must be one of them,’ Windsor said.

  ‘No motives, that’s the problem.’

  ‘I’m glad I’m only a crime scene examiner. I’ll leave the detective work to you.’ Gordon Windsor hung up and waited for an ambulance to remove the body. His team would go over the house in detail, although he was not expecting to find much.

  Keith Dawson came into the office. Isaac had seen him around the office over the last few weeks. Apart from regular meetings and the daily pleasantries, they had not spoken much. Dawson, he knew by reputation and their limited communications, was a gruff man. He always wore a dark suit with a brightly coloured tie, out of sync with his less than bright manner.

  ‘DCI, what can I do for you?’ Dawson said, his body weight straining the frail chair he was sitting on.

  ‘Montague Grenfell.’

  ‘Excellent records.’

  ‘No sign of fraud?’

  ‘None that I could see. Mind you, I had been asked to check his records to see that they were in order. A man such as Grenfell could fudge the records with little trouble.’

  ‘Is there any way to check?’

  ‘It would help if I had something specific to go on. What are you looking for?’