DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Davies?’

  ‘He’s not an easy man.’

  ‘Will Caddick be back?’ Larry asked, hopeful that the unpleasant Welshman who had temporarily occupied Isaac’s seat would not be returning.

  ‘He will if we don’t start solving the case.’

  ‘What did you achieve with Alex Hughenden?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Not a lot. We don’t have any proof against him. At the present time, he’s not guilty of any crime.’

  ‘But you suspect him?’

  ‘Serious and Organised Crime Command have their suspicions, but no proof. O’Shaughnessy and Walters have been the visible members of the syndicate bringing the drugs into the country, but they’re not smart enough for a venture of this complexity.

  ‘We could keep a watch on Hughenden,’ Larry suggested.

  ‘Can I leave that to you and Wendy?’ Isaac said.

  ***

  ‘You should have brought me in when you interviewed Hughenden,’ Len Donaldson said.

  Isaac and Donaldson were sitting in a café not far from Challis Street Police Station. Both men were relaxed in each other’s company, each having mutual respect for the other.

  ‘In hindsight, but I wanted to get the measure of the man. I needed to know if he had the look of a guilty man,’ Isaac said.

  ‘And what did you deduce?’

  ‘He’s careful in what he says.’

  ‘Slimy, that’s how I’d describe him,’ Donaldson said. ‘I’ve been into his shop, spoken to the man.’

  ‘Did he know who you were?’

  ‘I made out I was a customer aiming to buy a bracelet for my wife’s birthday.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Not a chance. He charges through the roof, and besides my wife ran off with my best friend. She’d be lucky to get the time of day from me.’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘The man has money, lots of it. I needed to know where it came from.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No doubt he makes good money, but not enough to buy a three-storey terrace in Bayswater, and a couple of other expensive houses in the area.’

  ‘Pillar of the church, donates to charity. Doesn’t that indicate a decent man?’ Isaac posed a rhetorical question.

  ‘No doubt he is kind to children, but he staked nearly one hundred thousand pounds for renovations on the church he attends.’

  ‘Guilty conscience?’

  ‘Maybe his generosity allows him to be involved in an odious business.’

  ‘Like taking from the rich to give to the poor, no matter how the money was obtained.’

  ‘Something like that. Besides that, what did you get from Hughenden?’

  ‘Nothing to incriminate him.’

  ‘What do you reckon of the man?’

  ‘He’s involved.’

  ‘How do you intend to prove it?’

  ‘I need to solve two murders first.’

  ‘You’ve solved them already.’

  ‘We have a case against O’Shaughnessy and Walters for the death of Dougal Stewart, but no way of implicating them in the death of Rodrigo Fuentes.’

  ‘That may never be solved unless you have a confession.’

  ‘We should work together on this,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘I thought we already were,’ Isaac’s reply.

  ***

  Larry was out on the street. He was meeting people, slipping them money for information. Wendy was close to Hughenden’s shop. She had looked in the window, seen a ring that she positively loved, but the price tag was the equivalent of six months of her salary.

  Rasta Joe was not pleased to see Larry, but he was at risk, he knew that, and the news of Rodrigo Fuentes’ death had created fear in those who dealt in drugs.

  ‘Rasta Joe, what’s the deal with Alex Hughenden?’ Larry asked in the Jamaican’s favourite pub. As usual, the drinks were on the police.

  ‘What’s there to tell you?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him a few times, but we don’t move in the same circles.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Rasta Joe, you know what’s going on. They fished Rodrigo Fuentes out of the Thames. Do you want to be next?’

  ‘Are you trying to frighten me?’

  ‘You’re already scared. I saw Fuentes two hours after the dredger had scooped him up. After a few weeks under water, it wasn’t a pleasant sight. That’s what you’ll look like if we don’t deal with O’Shaughnessy.’

  ‘Did he murder Fuentes?’

  ‘That’s what Pinto reckoned.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Rasta Joe asked. Larry noticed that his concern had not quenched his ability to down the pints.

  ‘Vicenzo Pinto is missing, presumed dead. And why are you so frightened?’

  ‘I was buying from Fuentes. You’re not going to arrest me for that confession, are you?’

  ‘Dealing with whoever’s behind these murders is more important.’

  Rasta Joe considered his position. It was either level with DI Hill or run the risk of an untimely death. He chose to level. ‘If I work with you on this, you’ve got to promise you’ll keep me out of prison,’ he said. It was the first time he had trusted a policeman; he knew it would raise the ire of his criminal compatriots, but they weren’t being threatened, he was.

  ‘That’s not a promise I can give.’

  ‘Then no deal.’

  ‘Is what you know crucial to our inquiry?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I can finger Hughenden,’ the Jamaican said.

  ‘What I can guarantee you is that your past and present crimes will be overlooked, but any in the future, then you’re on your own. No protection from me.’

  Rasta Joe sat back and sipped on his beer. ‘It’s a deal. In writing?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. You’ll have to trust me on this one.’

  ‘Alex Hughenden is not as clean as he pretends to be.’

  ‘We have strong suspicions that he’s not, but it’s difficult to prove.’

  ‘I don’t know about him and the drug trafficking, although Devlin O’Shaughnessy was drunk one night and he was talking.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘After a few drinks, no way.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Sober, he’s decent enough, but after a few drinks he starts getting unpleasant, making comments.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘The ones I’ve heard all my life. Ask your DCI, he’ll know what I mean.’

  ‘Go back to where you come from, you black bastard. That sort of thing?’ Larry asked. ‘He still gets it occasionally.’

  ‘At the police station?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say it to his face, but some wouldn’t be sorry to see him go.’

  ‘There are still racists out there,’ Rasta Joe said.

  ‘And people who deal in drugs.’

  ‘Point taken. Besides, I intend to be an honest citizen from now on.’

  ‘Remember, I’ll only protect you as long as you're straight with me. Any further criminal activity, I’ll not protect you.’ Larry knew the Jamaican would not leave crime, no more than he would give up policing. Rasta Joe represented the worst in society: people who prey on the vulnerabilities of others.

  Larry looked round the pub. He remembered in his youth, when he used to drink more than he should, that a public house was an Englishman’s enclave, but now in a pub close to Notting Hill he could only see people from elsewhere. In the far corner, he saw a couple of young lovers oblivious to their surroundings; at the bar, a group of migrants in from Eastern Europe speaking one of the Slavic languages. Larry assumed it was Polish, as they were everywhere in London. Most were decent people trying to make their way, but an undesirable element had come in with them.

  Larry had to admit that he liked Rasta Joe as a person. The man was entertaining, and now that he needed him, affable. It did not excuse the man from the fact tha
t he made a living out of the misery and addiction of others.

  The two men organised a pub lunch. Larry knew that after five pints there would be no food for him at home that night. Not that he blamed his wife, as she only cared for him, but sometimes there had been some furious arguments, at least from her side, about why he needed to drink as part of the job. Larry was confident she understood, but it did not stop her complaining, although she was not a woman to dwell on it for too long. The next morning his breakfast would be on the table, and she would be back to her cheerful self.

  ‘What’s the deal with Hughenden?’ Larry asked as he proceeded to eat his steak and chips.

  ‘You need to check out the merchandise in his shop.’

  ‘I know it’s expensive.’

  ‘Ask him where it all came from.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘One of my mates, he’s a thief.’

  ‘I thought all your friends were good citizens.’

  ‘He is. Anyway, what’s the difference between someone who steals from the rich and those rich bastards who never pay their taxes.’

  Larry had to admit he had a point, but he was not there to discuss social inequalities. ‘Your friend, what does he say about Hughenden?’

  ‘Hughenden will buy the expensive stuff from him.’

  ‘Are you certain? Will your friend put that down in writing?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Rasta Joe said.

  ‘No, but I’ll need details,’ Larry said.

  ‘Then my friend will be in trouble with Hughenden.’

  ‘Is Hughenden the man in charge of the syndicate?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him involved, but O’Shaughnessy’s involved and Hughenden’s crooked. What do you think?’

  ‘We have our suspicions that Hughenden is a senior man, but no proof.’

  ‘I can’t get you proof. Too much risk for me.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  ‘I’ve people watching out for me. If anyone makes a move towards me, they’ll see them.’

  ‘Part of your gang?’

  ‘Don’t look, you’ll not notice them.’

  Larry knew full well that a black man in London did not look out of place, although there were certain areas where a white man would. He was aware that Rasta Joe had supplied the information necessary to pressure Hughenden, but without proof, the man would slide out from under.

  Chapter 13

  Alex Hughenden had walked from the Challis Street Police Station a confident man. He knew they had nothing on him, although he had allowed them to get under his skin a few times. He determined to take care not to let it happen again. He could never understand why others allowed themselves to be caught, although greed seemed likely. He had always been careful to keep his criminal activities at a moderate level, knowing full well that the occasional illegal activity would not be visible.

  Over the years he had made a fortune, but was always careful to conceal it: no rash purchases of expensive cars, no overt signs of obscene wealth. The houses he had purchased could be seen as the wise investments of a successful businessman and certainly within the realms of possibility from the takings of his jewellery shop. It was small, but it only dealt in the best, to an exclusive clientele who were more concerned with the beauty of the object than its cost. Nevertheless, they would always brag to their socially-paranoid acquaintances about how much they had paid; almost a badge of honour to show that money meant little to them.

  He knew these people for what they were, and he did not like them very much. He much preferred the humble people at his church. Hughenden had grown up in a strictly Methodist God-fearing family: the patriarch, the manager of the local bank. He had advised the young Alex well. ‘Look after your money, invest wisely and don’t show it off to others. They will only be jealous.’

  His father had forgotten one lesson, don’t get involved in crime, which is what the young Alex did as soon as he was able to figure the percentages on the deal.

  ‘To give you a good religious grounding,’ his father had said when the young Alex had complained at being sent to a cold and dusty boarding school. Two years later, when he was ten, Alex learnt the truth during an unexpected visit to his father’s bank. He had caught him sitting on his desk with his personal assistant kneeling in front of him. His father had made light of the matter, said he had a stomach ache and she was attempting to massage the sore area.

  Young Alex, only ten and unknowledgeable of such matters, remembered later the magazines of some of the older boys at the school and then realised what he had just seen.

  From that day on, the relationship between father and son had deteriorated, and no more was mentioned about what had occurred. His mother, oblivious to her hypocritical bigot of a husband, went to her grave believing in him totally. Alex had wanted to tell her when he was older, but never did. He knew he had made the right decision in at least ensuring that one member of his family was blissfully ignorant of the realities of life.

  His mother had believed in good and bad, heaven and earth, and her husband. Her son had only one belief, the percentage and what was in it for him. He knew that at the church he was as insincere as his father, but he never cheated them, and he certainly did not indulge in blowjobs with his secretary, not that he had one, and although the lady who helped him at the weekend was attractive, he never made a play for her.

  Hughenden was a celibate man. The roughness of O’Shaughnessy had tempted him, although he knew full well what the man’s reaction would be, and besides, he liked his life the way it was: alone and self-contained.

  ***

  Wendy, alerted by Larry after his conversation with Rasta Joe, maintained her vigil, although she could not stay indefinitely waiting for the first sign of criminal intent on Hughenden’s part, and besides it could be weeks, months before he made a move.

  She was sitting in a café opposite observing his shop, but there were only so many cups she could drink in a day.

  Larry joined her. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you expect? That he’s buying stolen jewellery every five minutes?’ Wendy said tersely. The caffeine was starting to get to her, and her DI’s breath stank.

  ‘Of course not. What do you suggest?’

  ‘What are we trying to achieve? I thought we were after a murderer, not someone who deals in stolen goods.’

  ‘We need a lever on our man opposite. He’s squeaky clean, too clean, and he knows something.’

  ‘No criminal record?’

  ‘Nothing of importance, and that’s bugging us. Hughenden’s fencing stolen jewellery, and he’s too smart by half. He made mincemeat of DCI Cook and me.’

  ‘He’s the Mister Big?’

  ‘Not sure, but probably not. It would need more than one individual.’

  ‘Hughenden doesn’t fit the bill?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘The man rarely travels out of the country, and it would need personal meetings to pull off the scale of the drugs being imported.’

  ‘We can’t sit here indefinitely. If you want to get this man, we need to research stolen goods, known thieves. Then we might stand a chance. I could work with Bridget on this,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I’ll concentrate on where O’Shaughnessy has gone. If we can find him, then he may rat on Hughenden. Either we wrap this up soon, or DCI Caddick is back.’

  ‘I suggest we work overtime then. Nobody wants him back in the office.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my bluntness, DI,’ Wendy said, ‘buy some mints, the strong ones, or your wife is going to have apoplexy.’

  Larry knew she was right. Too many times he had returned home drunk, and he could see it becoming a habit. He had seen too many police officers’ marriages confined to history due to a predilection to drink too much, work too many hours, and associate with criminals, and Rasta Joe was a criminal, the worst kind. In fact, he had to admit that many criminals were charming, even Hughenden with his superior
manner, but Larry wasn’t sure if O’Shaughnessy would be. The man was literate, but he had gone at Stewart’s body with a chainsaw: hardly the manner of a charming man.

  ‘Across the road!’ Larry said.

  ‘Hughenden,’ Wendy said. ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘No idea, but it’s not the time to be closing up.’

  Both the police officers observed the man as he fastidiously secured the metal grille over the windows and set the alarm. He was moving quickly as he completed the task, which seemed unusual, especially to Larry, as the man had been, if anything, in the interview at Challis Street, slow and measured.

  ‘Something’s flustered him,’ Wendy said. ‘We need to follow him.’

  ‘You’re better than me. You’d better do it.’

  Soon after the two police officers left the café, Larry careful to conceal himself as he turned to the right. Wendy turned to the left, her eyes very firmly on Hughenden’s back. She hoped he would not walk fast as her legs were giving her trouble, or jump in a car, as hers was fifty yards away.

  Hughenden continued to walk at a brisk pace. Wendy realised she could keep up if it were only for a mile or so. The man did not look to the left and right, and certainly not behind him, which was as well, as a red in the face woman would have been suspicious.

  Four hundred yards from his shop, Hughenden came to a halt. A man approached him from a side street. Wendy ducked into a shop doorway to observe. The owner of the shop came out to ask what she was doing. ‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone,’ she said. She showed her police identification. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Take as long as you like,’ the shop owner said.

  Wendy, momentarily distracted, could see the two men in discussion. It seemed to be an amenable conversation. Wendy took out her phone and made a call. ‘DI, it’s O’Shaughnessy.’

  Larry, alerted to the development, started to put plans into place.

  Isaac was contacted and could see one murderer charged if they could only capture him. DCS Goddard, who was in his SIO’s office at the time of Larry Hill’s phone call, was elated. ‘This will keep Commissioner Davies off my back,’ he said.

  ‘Still causing trouble?’ Isaac asked.