DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  He had prepared carefully for the interview, although he knew they had no proof against him.

  What had he done? he thought. He had been friendly with O’Shaughnessy, even rented a house to him, and the man had turned out to be a murderer involved in the drug trade. How could that be related to him?

  He was supremely confident that the police would be swayed by his elegant manners and his respectability. There was nothing to connect him with the death of Dougal Stewart, although he had to admit he had enjoyed the sight of the man hanging from the ceiling, and Pinto pleading for his life in the corner of a dirty warehouse.

  He had expected Devlin and Steve to kill the two men, not to kill one as they did and then cut him up. Devlin had admitted to a phone call and to be acting on instructions, which surprised him as in the past he had been their only contact.

  He had thought at the time that someone was usurping his position, but the man had phoned and told him that he had made the phone call.

  Alex had said that he understood, as earlier in the day he had been out of contact meeting up with some friends, close friends, and his phone was off, but phoning Devlin direct…

  Hughenden wasn’t totally sure but had discounted his misgivings. Hadn’t the man phoned him up to wish him well for his visit with the police?

  He did not know the man’s real name, although he suspected who he was. He was certainly well connected and had plenty of money, but Hughenden had never checked further, knew he would not unless the man aimed to cut him out of the picture. Then he would find out who he was, who his contacts were, possibly take the man’s position in the organisation. Hughenden realised that he was visible, yet the man was hidden from view and taking all the profits.

  What did he receive? he thought as he waited for his appointment at Challis Street. A lousy three hundred thousand pounds each month. What did the man receive? It must be a lot more judging by the car the man drove, and the suit he wore.

  He decided to find out more about him, just in case.

  ***

  Isaac had to admit the woman was a knockout, dark but not as dark as him. She wore a blue top with a short skirt, even though the weather outside was chilly. She was the sort of woman who men were drawn to like bees to a honey pot.

  ‘My Rodrigo, have you found him?’ she asked.

  Isaac recognised the accent as Brazilian. ‘Are you a friend of his?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We were lovers.’

  Isaac realised that friend and lover were not always mutually compatible, but in this case, they probably were. ‘And your name?’

  ‘Maria Cidade.’

  Isaac moved with her from the entrance to the police station to his office. The woman was nervous. He assumed she had probably overstayed her visa and was working somewhere for cash in hand. He discounted the possibilities of what she did to make money.

  Maria Cidade did not look poor, and if she were indeed the lover of Rodrigo Fuentes, then she would have had money, drug money.

  ‘We are conducting investigations,’ Isaac said.

  ‘He was with me four weeks ago, and then he disappears without saying anything.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought he had another woman, but he was not like that, my Rodrigo.’

  ‘A good man?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘To me he was.’

  ‘But you knew what he did?’

  ‘He always said he would stop, and then we would buy a house in Brazil and make lots of babies.’

  ‘We have recovered a body from the River Thames. Why do you think it may be him? Why have you not come forward before?’ Isaac asked. He had been joined in his office by Wendy Gladstone.

  ‘I wanted to, but I knew what he was.’

  ‘A drug dealer?’ Wendy said.

  ‘My Rodrigo is driven by ambition.’

  ‘How long have you been in England?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘Legally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Isaac did not intend to follow that line of enquiry. If Maria Cidade had overstayed her visa, he would report it to the authorities another time. The more important matter was the current case, and if the body recovered from the river, and now with Pathology, proved to be Rodrigo Fuentes, then the woman who sat in his office was the closest person to him.

  ‘Tell me about Rodrigo,’ Isaac said. ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Tall, the same colour as me.’

  ‘His age?’

  ‘Thirty-seven.’

  ‘His medical history. Was he in good health?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘He broke his arm about six months ago,’ Maria said. ‘He fell off his motorbike.’

  Isaac knew that he needed to talk to Graham Pickett, the pathologist.

  ***

  Four Old Etonians met. It was unusual for them to meet often. Typically all communication was conducted by phone and email. This time there was to be an extraordinary meeting.

  ‘We agreed on condition of our anonymity,’ Fortescue, the parliamentarian said. There were others in Westminster who would say he was anonymous there as well.

  ‘I have always respected that,’ the fourth man said.

  ‘That may be, but if they catch you, they’ll find us,’ Fortescue said. The other two men in the room nodded their acknowledgement.

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘There’s another body,’ Griffiths, the businessman, said. He was not as firm in his criticism. He had used the money that he had gained to stave off impending financial disaster. The supermarket chain that had been attempting to undercut him, to force him out of business, had failed to do so. Every time they lowered the price of an item, he would go lower. In the end, the competitor, realising there was nothing to be gained, had backed off, and discussions were underway to form an alliance to their mutual benefit. Or, at least, the benefit of the two supermarket chains. With them working in collusion, they would become a monopoly in some parts of the country. Then there would be a price war to drive out anyone else who threatened them. Griffiths was delighted that he had accepted the fourth man’s offer, but his anonymity was still threatened; he knew that.

  Lord Allerton was also concerned, but still pleased with the arrangement. The extra money had secured him financially, and he no longer needed to admit the obtrusive tourists into his home.

  None of the four had any concern about the financial viability of the venture, although none relished their good life being affected by their identities being revealed, and three of them knew that to be a distinct possibility.

  ‘This man you’re using,’ Allerton asked. ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘He’s done a good job,’ the fourth man replied.

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘I’ve trusted him up till now.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘He may need to go.’

  ‘Another death?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘It’s always possible.’

  ‘But why? Each death brings the police closer to us,’ Fortescue said.

  ‘May I remind you that I have made every one of you rich,’ the fourth man said.

  ‘We were rich before,’ Griffiths reminded him.

  ‘You all had your reasons for joining with me.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Allerton said, ‘but we didn’t count on people dying.’

  ‘That’s sheer hypocrisy, and you know it.’ The fourth man was angry.

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘So if someone dies of a drug overdose, a drug that you supplied, you’re not concerned.’

  ‘They don’t connect back to us.’

  ‘But if they do? What did you expect when you became involved with this, that it would be a bed of roses? We’re dealing with illicit Class A drugs here, not running a chain of supermarkets, or pontificating in Parliament, or prancing around a stately home in a deerstalker hat and shooting poachers. We’re dealing with the underbelly of society, the scum, not the members of a clu
b for gentlemen.’

  Three men sat stunned. In all the years since they had formed the pact at Eton College, they had never raised a voice in anger at each other.

  Griffiths spoke for the three. ‘You need to protect us,’ he said.

  ‘I am. Believe me, my friends, I know what I’m doing.’

  Lord Allerton sat quietly. He was not sure what to do next. He only wanted to be back at home with his family. ‘I want out,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ the fourth man said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You three are my protection.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If this doesn’t work out, if the police get too close, I need you three to get me out of the country and to ensure that I live to a ripe old age.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘You know the answer to that question.’

  ‘You’ll tell the police all about us.’

  ‘If I’m going to prison, I’m not going alone. I need people of my own class as cellmates.’

  ‘You’re blackmailing us,’ Allerton said.

  ‘It’s not blackmail, it’s survival. All three of you were pleased to go along when the money was flowing and you were isolated in your ivory towers. Now the heat’s on, you’re all chickening out.’

  The meeting ended badly. All four shook hands, offered words of friendship, but it was all a pretence. Only one man knew the way forward. He needed to act decisively and soon.

  Chapter 12

  Maria Cidade had spent three hours at Challis Street. Isaac had phoned the pathologist to pass on the information about Rodrigo Fuentes’ broken arm. Eventually she had left; Isaac would pass on the inevitable news at a later time.

  The pathologist, after checking, confirmed that the body on his autopsy table was almost certainly the missing Brazilian, but one hundred per cent confirmation would only come when a DNA sample from his parents in Brazil arrived.

  The Homicide team needed no official report to know that they had Fuentes’ body.

  Alex Hughenden arrived at Challis Street on time. The interview room had been booked for him. Isaac and Larry would represent the police. Hughenden declined legal representation.

  Isaac conducted the formalities before commencing. ‘We are interested in your relationship with Devlin O’Shaughnessy,’ Isaac asked.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell you. The man was a friend, and I rented a house to him.’

  ‘A friend who is involved in drug dealing and murder?’

  ‘I don’t judge my friends on what you may say they are guilty of.’

  ‘The man had money, yet you never asked where it came from?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Why should I? Do you judge your friends, decide if they’re worthy to let into your house?’ Hughenden replied.

  ‘We are asking the questions,’ Isaac reminded the man.

  ‘Devlin was an educated man. Of course, he may not have looked it, but he could converse about art and literature. It’s not often that you meet people who can.’

  Isaac realised they did not have anything on Hughenden. The man sat back in his chair, his arms folded. He knew that he could deal with the two police officers sitting across from him.

  They’ve got nothing on me, he thought. Hughenden knew he had no criminal record, apart from a minor offence in his youth, no involvement with the law apart from the time his place was broken into. He knew he was superior in intellect to the men who were interviewing him.

  He did have one worry, but he did not intend to reveal it in the police station at Challis Street. Why was O’Shaughnessy taking instructions from the man, when the arrangement had always been clear? It had always been agreed that he, Alex Hughenden, would deal with the day-to-day running of the business and that the man was not to have any contact with the people he employed. And how did the man have his former friend’s phone number. He was certain that was what Devlin was now. Not only was he avoiding his phone calls, but he was also conducting business deals without him.

  Hughenden had heard about the vehicle coming over from France from the driver. He had only contacted him when Devlin had short-changed him on the money they’d agreed. Something to do with a short shipment which could only mean one of two things: the driver was taking some of the merchandise for himself, or O’Shaughnessy was on the fiddle. Hughenden was sure of the answer.

  He could see that something would have to be done, but he needed to get out of the police station.

  ‘According to the Serious and Organised Crime Command, you are under suspicion,’ Larry said. He did not like the look of the man sitting opposite him. His sixth sense suspected the man knew more, and he had met his type before. To him, Hughenden represented the worst kind of criminal: educated and able to use their intellect to fool the police and to organise major crimes. People like Hughenden never dirtied their hands with the grubby side of the business; that was left to others.

  ‘Where did O’Shaughnessy acquire this knowledge?’ Larry asked.

  ‘About what?’ Hughenden replied.

  ‘Art and literature.’

  ‘He’s a great reader.’

  ‘In prison?’

  ‘We never spoke about his time in jail, but it’s possible.’

  ‘What did you talk about ?’

  Hughenden thought to himself, stay calm with this buffoon. He’s attempting to provoke me.

  ‘Art and literature.’

  ‘I put it to you that you were masterminding the whole operation, and that you knew full well of O’Shaughnessy’s involvement in the drug trade.’

  ‘That’s slanderous, and you know it.’ Hughenden could feel his pulse racing. He forced himself to relax. One word said incorrectly, and the police would be looking further into his business affairs. There was still enough evidence of his fencing stolen jewellery, if only they looked.

  ‘O’Shaughnessy and Walters are not capable of pulling off an operation of this size,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Am I guilty by association?’ Hughenden replied indignantly, realising that he was letting the two men get to him.

  ‘You have the intelligence to do it.’

  Hughenden cleared his throat. ‘Let’s be clear. I have no criminal record, no history of violence. I’m a solid member of the community who goes to church every Sunday and gives to charity.’

  ‘So did Al Capone,’ Larry said.

  ‘Do you want to repeat that outside of this police station?’ Hughenden replied. His blood was seething at this penniless upstart. If he wasn’t a policeman…, he thought.

  ‘DI Hill spoke out of frustration. If, as you say, you are a pillar of society, your associations are disturbing,’ Isaac said.

  ‘DCI Cook is right,’ Larry said. ‘Defence based on a person’s good character will hold little weight in a Court of Law. It may mediate the sentence, but it does not absolve the person of guilt.’

  ‘Am I defending myself? From what?’

  ‘That you are involved in the importation of large quantities of heroin and cocaine into this country, and that you have set up an elaborate network to distribute them.’

  ‘Preposterous. What proof do you have?’

  Len Donaldson had asked to be present. Isaac had put him off as he was interested in bringing a murderer to justice. He now regretted that decision. There was something about Hughenden that didn’t ring true, Isaac knew, but there was no proof, only supposition, and as the man had said himself, guilt by association.

  Isaac had to conclude the interview knowing full well that they had only raised the hackles of the man opposite, although he knew that could provoke an action, an unexpected move that would prove the man’s guilt. And one thing the DCI knew: Alex Hughenden was guilty.

  ***

  The DNA from Brazil had arrived. Pathology had confirmed that the body retrieved from the River Thames was Rodrigo Fuentes, a known drug dealer and trafficker. There were none in Challis Street who were concerned that another lowlife had died, but the man
had had chains around his ankles and was a murder statistic. The team had been working on that basis ever since the body had been discovered; now it was official.

  Isaac had phoned Maria Cidade to let her know. He had conducted some checks, and she appeared to be a decent person who had fallen in love with a criminal.

  She had taken the news calmly and said she would take his body back to Brazil for his parents. Hopefully, she said, they would never find out the truth of what he had become.

  DCS Goddard, wanting to wrap up the murder of Dougal Stewart, was again in Isaac’s office at Challis Street. The team were already there.

  ‘DCI, another one?’ Goddard stated the obvious.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Isaac replied, anticipating the now predictable response from his senior, the man he had once held in great esteem.

  ‘You know who murdered Stewart. Is the latest death related?’

  ‘We believe so.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Vicenzo Pinto mentioned Fuentes’ name before he disappeared.’

  ‘Then it’s three murders?’ Goddard said.

  ‘We do not have proof of Pinto’s death.’

  ‘But you’re certain he’s dead.’

  ‘Until we receive advice to the contrary, then we will treat his disappearance as murder.’

  ‘And the murderer of Rodrigo Fuentes?’

  ‘Devlin O’Shaughnessy and Steve Walters.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘It’s unlikely. After four weeks weighted down in the Thames, there’s not a lot to work with.’

  ‘The body of Dougal Stewart. Can you register a case against O’Shaughnessy and Walters?’

  ‘With Pinto’s evidence.’

  ‘But if he’s dead.’

  ‘It would’ve been better to have a live witness, but we have his interview on video as well as a signed confession. His evidence will hold up, and we have a lot of fingerprints from the warehouse where they killed Stewart. We’ve enough.’

  ‘Then find the murderers soon before I have him onto me again.’ Goddard left the office soon after.

  ‘Who’s he referring to?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘The commissioner.’