DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  Wendy consoled Emma Hampshire who was in tears. Kevin Solomon moved away from Lord Penrith and over to his mother.

  ‘Very clever, Chief Inspector. Garry’s attempt at blackmail was amateurish. He had stumbled on the truth, and he was threatening Albert,’ Penrith said.

  ‘Are you saying Albert killed him?’

  ‘He had no problems when Garry died.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  Malcolm Grenfell looked over at his wife. ‘I did it for you, only you. Why do you think I never married?’

  Lady Penrith stared at him blankly.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ Lord Penrith said. He walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and pulled open a drawer. He took out a loaded gun, Albert’s old gun. He pointed it at his temple and pulled the trigger.

  The End

  Murder is Only a Number

  PHILLIP STRANG

  Chapter 1

  Part 1

  Stephanie Chalmers realised that her life was not as it should be. On the one hand, she had a husband who loved her; on the other, he was a lecherous bastard who would chase anyone half decent in a skirt.

  It was not as though she was beaten, or impoverished, or even neglected. Gregory Chalmers, she knew, had been a good catch when she had met him ten years previously. He had only been thirty-two then, two years older than her. Already, he had his own legal practice and was doing well. He had an easy way with words and an attractive physique with a full head of black hair. Sure, she had heard about his reputation, but she was confident she could tame him, the same way she had tamed a previous boyfriend, but that damn fool went and got himself killed in a motor accident. A tragedy as she saw it, considering all the effort she had put into the relationship.

  She had loved the previous boyfriend with the all-consuming passion reserved for the young and susceptible; she had no intention of repeating that mistake by falling for Gregory, her future husband, only ultimately to be disappointed. It had taken six months before he proposed to her, wed her, and then bedded her, but not necessarily in that order. She knew that he would continue to love her intensely; she knew how to do that, but she would only feel a strong affection. Still, she had reasoned, it was a good arrangement, and for nine of the ten years they had been fine.

  Two children had resulted, both healthy, both obviously intelligent – a trait inherited from both parents. Stephanie had always assumed that her husband would not cheat on her, but in that she had been wrong.

  Gregory Chalmers was a womaniser; he could not help himself. It had upset her the first couple of times, but then, she reasoned, he would calm down in time, and besides, the pretence of enjoying the act of procreation every other night was wearing thin; she was glad of the rest.

  Regardless, Chalmers loved his wife, even if he had to sneak in late at night every few weeks, hoping that his wife was asleep – she never was.

  ***

  It was Stephanie who first suggested they needed someone to help with the children. She was busy running her interior design business, her husband was occupied with more legal cases than he could handle.

  Ingrid was the first woman to apply, a fresh-faced, clear-skinned young woman. ‘I’m studying in London. My hours are flexible, so helping you out would be all right,’ she had said.

  Both the parents agreed that she would be good for the children, as she would pick them up from school and ensure they had their evening meal and completed their homework.

  It was three months later that Stephanie first suspected something was amiss. She had come home earlier than usual one night. The children were next door with friends, although Ingrid was in the house, as was Gregory.

  Upstairs, a little dismayed after the innocent looks from the two downstairs, she had seen that the marital bed was not as tidy as usual. She pulled back the cover, the evidence clearly visible. The sheets on her husband’s side of the bed were creased, and they had been fresh on that morning.

  Stephanie had sat down, shed a tear, drunk a glass of brandy, and then returned downstairs. By that time, Ingrid had left, and no more was said.

  Two weeks passed before another occurrence with Ingrid and Gregory; two weeks where Stephanie had an opportunity to reflect on all that had transpired.

  Still, she reasoned, he left her alone, and after that night the marital bed had not been used for the coupling of the man of the house and the children’s helper. Stephanie Chalmers decided to let sleeping dogs lie. No point in creating unpleasantness when it was not needed. She remained civil to Ingrid; agreeable and available to Gregory, which was not too often.

  ***

  ‘Ingrid, this has to stop. My wife is suspicious,’ Gregory Chalmers said, four weeks into their affair. It was Thursday night, and as usual Stephanie would be home late. It was also the one night of the week when it could be guaranteed that the children were elsewhere, either next door or at a school friend’s place somewhere in the area.

  Chalmers had realised that the first flush of the affair with Ingrid, who was in her mid-twenties, had been incredible, but he was tired of her. She was becoming neurotic, wanting to touch him inappropriately in the house when Stephanie was there. It was fun the first couple of times but after that…

  Gregory Chalmers, a philandering man who needed to chase other women, needed to feed his ego, was, he knew, at heart a one-woman man, and that woman was Stephanie.

  He was aware that she knew about him and Ingrid. He had sensed it the last couple of times he and Stephanie had made love. Sure, she had been affectionate and yielding, pushing all the right buttons, but something was missing: a lack of tenderness, a tightening in her body that he had not seen or felt before.

  She knew about his activities at the office with one of his clients, an attractive woman in her forties. He was almost certain that she knew about him and the wife of the local golf club captain. One of his so-called friends had called him twentieth hole Greg in front of Stephanie. Gregory knew that his wife’s laugh was purely for the friend’s benefit; to show him that she was naïve and silly, both of which she was not.

  Only once in their years together had Stephanie referred to Gregory’s wrongdoing. ‘Don’t bring it home,’ she had said, and here he was, doing just that.

  ‘I thought you cared,’ Ingrid said in the kitchen of the house, a substantial three-storey terrace in Twickenham.

  ‘You knew what it was,’ Chalmers replied.

  ‘Just a screw, is that it?’ Ingrid said. The woman was becoming irrational, and he knew that Stephanie was due home within fifteen minutes. He now regretted that he had not resisted one last act of seduction in the elder child’s bedroom.

  ‘What did you expect? That I would leave my wife?’

  ‘I love you, and now you are throwing me out.’

  ‘No, I’m not. The job is still here.’

  ‘I took the job because of you,’ Ingrid said.

  It had not been normal for Stephanie to phone when she left her business to drive home. It was a fifteen-minute drive when the traffic was flowing, thirty when it was not, and he knew after her phone call which of the two it would be.

  Gregory Chalmers was frantic, attempting to reason with a hysterical woman and to ease her to the front door and out of the house. There was no way that either he or Ingrid could pretend to be idly conversing when Stephanie entered, and she would wonder what Ingrid was doing in the house anyway. After he had noticed that first time that Stephanie had checked the bed and seen the crumpled sheets, they had been extra careful. In fact, apart from their arranged meetings at the house, he had rarely seen Ingrid. She had wanted to meet at a local hotel, take a room, but he had declined. He had been with Stephanie a long time, and though he had seduced a few women, none had become clingy like this one.

  Maybe she was too young, too immature, too unknowledgeable, he had thought, but he had discounted that very early on in their short relationship.

  He knew now that Ingrid Bentham was a troubled woman, possibly delusional.


  ‘Take your hands off of me,’ Ingrid screamed as Gregory Chalmers took her firmly by the arm and marched her to the door.

  ‘Stephanie will be back soon,’ he shouted.

  ‘Good. Then you can tell your wife that you love me, and we are to be together.’

  ‘We cannot be together. I will stay with Stephanie, and you will leave.’

  ‘You have never loved me,’ Ingrid said. The woman had freed herself from Chalmers and was back in the kitchen, opening drawers, slamming them shut, picking up pans and hurling them to the floor. She even tipped the casserole that Gregory had prepared for Stephanie over on the floor.

  She will be home in five minutes, Gregory thought. He knew there was no way he could clean up by then, and no way the woman causing mayhem would leave. He was unable to think straight, unable to even contemplate an explanation that would satisfy Stephanie when she walked in.

  ‘Go, please go.’ Gregory grabbed her again, manhandled her towards the back door. He knew that whatever happened, the evening would end badly.

  Ingrid freed herself, using superhuman strength. She opened the drawer next to the sink. She took out a razor-sharp knife.

  ‘You bastard. The same as all the other men,’ she said as she drove the knife hard into Gregory Chalmers’ rib cage. He fell back, stunned by what had just happened, but still alive.

  ‘What have you done?’ he gasped. He held his hand over the wound, the red blood staining his white shirt.

  ‘I thought you were different; someone I could love, someone I could trust.’

  With Chalmers leaning back against the pantry door, Ingrid came forward, her eyes ablaze, her mouth grimacing, as she thrust the knife forward, again and again. Chalmers collapsed to the ground, and died.

  ***

  Stephanie Chalmers burst into the kitchen; she had arrived within fifteen minutes, as her now-dead husband had predicted. ‘What have you done?’ she screamed.

  Ingrid stood at one end of the kitchen, the bloodied knife in her hand. ‘He deserved to die,’ she said.

  Stephanie, unable to comprehend the scene, stood mute. Her husband lay on the tiled floor, covered in blood. The children’s helper, a person she had trusted with the safety of her children, had murdered her husband.

  Ingrid Bentham moved towards Stephanie, grabbed her by the hair and struck her across the body with the knife. Stephanie reacted, grabbed the knife, and threw it away. Ingrid, fiery mad and no longer in control, grabbed a thin knife that had been on the wooden table in the middle of the room and thrust it into Stephanie.

  Stephanie Chalmers collapsed, apparently dead. Ingrid then walked over to Gregory’s body and ripped open his shirt.

  With the thin knife, she carefully carved the number 2 on his exposed chest. She then removed all her clothes, took a shower, helped herself to some clean clothes from Stephanie Chalmers’ wardrobe, and walked out of the front door.

  Chapter 2

  The first notification of the events at the Chalmers’ house was the blubbering voice of a child on the phone. ‘Daddy and Mummy are dead.’

  The operator at the emergency control centre responded at once, immediately instigating a trace on the mobile phone.

  ‘Is there an adult there?’ was her first question.

  ‘Daddy and Mummy are dead.’ This time the voice more unsettled than before.

  ‘Can I have an address?’

  ‘Glenloch Road.’

  ‘Can you give me a number?’

  ‘Daddy and Mummy are dead.’

  ‘I need you to help me if I am to help them. What is the number in Glenloch Road?’

  ‘64.’

  Even before the name of the street had been given, the police and the ambulance services had been mobilised. Glenloch Park had been identified as Twickenham, and triangulation based on the mobile phone masts in the area had confirmed this.

  It would only be seconds before the mobile number had been identified and a registered owner and address confirmed.

  Local police officers were the first on the scene, only one minute before an ambulance arrived. ‘It looks grim,’ Police Constable O’Riordan said over the phone to his superior.

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Judging by the blood, I would say so.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘One, definitely; the other one looks to be in a bad way.’

  ‘Ambulance?’

  ‘It’s here now.’

  ‘There’s a child here; he made the discovery. I would assume him to be the child of the house.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll send someone down to look after him. In the meantime, you know the procedure.’

  The paramedic who had arrived with the ambulance had made a cursory check on the bloodied man lying on the floor in the kitchen.

  ‘Careful with the evidence,’ PC O’Riordan, a red-haired young man in his mid-twenties, said. Three years out of training and this was his first murder. He knew the procedure: secure the area, ensure that any evidence was left undisturbed before the crime scene examiner and his team had a chance to conduct their investigation, phone Homicide, although his superior, Sergeant Graves, back at the station, would almost certainly have dealt with that.

  ‘The woman is still alive,’ the paramedic, a middle-aged man, said.

  ‘Serious?’ O’Riordan asked, preferring not to look too closely. His first murder, his first time being confronted with so much blood. He had been trained to react calmly, although he had not yet attained the ability to detach himself from a scene of violence. He went outside and threw up, splattering some daffodils with his vomit. Taking a drink of water from a tap in the garden, he returned to the scene.

  Detective Inspector Sara Stanforth was there. ‘What is your preliminary report?’ she asked the police constable.

  ‘Male, clearly dead; the female is still alive, although in a bad way.’

  ‘I can see that myself,’ DI Stanforth said. O’Riordan knew her from the police station. He had only spoken to her on a couple of occasions, and both times she had been unpleasant. He assumed that their third meeting would be no different. Sean O’Riordan, ambitious and smart, but still, as yet, only a police constable, did not appreciate her style, but he knew that she was efficient.

  ‘I arrived on the scene at 20.52 in response to a 999.’

  ‘Yes, but what else?’ Sara Stanforth said. A smartly-dressed woman, she was determined to succeed in an establishment clearly dominated by men. She knew of the glares from the men down at the station, men who should know better. Some had been friendly, especially Detective Chief Inspector Bob Marshall: so much so that they were now an item, having moved in together three months previously.

  As for the others, some had been willing to treat her as an equal while the rest saw her as a bit of fluff, suitable only for making the coffee and whatever else. The whatever else she knew. Sara Stanforth knew she could be a bitch and overbearing, particularly in the station, but it came with the territory. She had to establish her credentials quickly before the typical male chauvinism took over.

  ‘Family name, Chalmers. The dead male is probably Gregory Chalmers.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘The young boy, his name is Billy, said that it was his father, and this is the house of Gregory and Stephanie Chalmers.’

  ‘Confirmed?’ DI Stanforth asked.

  ‘There are letters on a table in the hallway with their names on.’

  Sara Stanforth had brought another woman from the station. She was with the boy, attempting to find out who he knew that could come and look after him. It was clear that he was a witness, but for now his well-being was more important.

  ‘And the woman is Stephanie Chalmers?’

  ‘According to Billy, it is.’

  The crime scene was quickly being established, and the crime scene examiner was on his way. A neighbour, identified as a friend of Stephanie Chalmers, had come over and was tending to the young boy. His sister, known to be at a friend’s house, would be staying
the night there.

  ‘Anymore you can tell us?’ Sara Stanforth asked the paramedic as he removed Stephanie Chalmers from the murder scene, knowing full well that the paramedic’s responsibility was to the seriously injured woman, not to the police.

  ‘Knife wound to the lower body, loss of blood. No more than that for now.’

  ‘We will need to interview her.’

  ‘At the hospital, but not today.’

  ‘When?’ Sara Stanforth asked.

  ‘Not for me to say. You’ll need to check with the doctor.’

  It had only been a brief conversation, but DI Stanforth knew that the paramedic had been correct. However, this was her case, her first murder as the senior police officer, and she did not intend to let anyone else take it from her.

  ‘Constable, Sean, what else can you tell me? At least, before the crime scene examiner and his people move us out.’

  ‘It’s not a suicide pact.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘If you look again, you will see some clothes stuffed in a corner and some footprints made in the blood. There was a third person.’

  ‘The murderer?’

  ‘That would be the assumption.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Female, judging by the discarded clothes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There is a number carved into the male’s chest.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Sara Stanforth asked.

  ‘No idea, but there it was. Number 2.’

  The crime scene examiner arrived, briefly spoke to the DI and the PC, donned his overalls, put gloves on his hands, protectors over his shoes, and commenced his work.

  ‘A full report as soon as possible,’ Sara Stanforth said.

  ‘You’ll have a preliminary within two hours. The full report sometime tomorrow,’ Crime Scene Examiner Crosley replied.