DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘That’s six,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Always so smart, aren’t you? I’m dying, and you’re going to slam me up in prison for the last few years of my life. You’re a bastard and whatever I say will make no difference. Do what you like. I’ll say no more.’

  Isaac could see that they had drawn a blank with the man, although he was guilty as charged. ‘Alex Hughenden is involved,’ he said.

  ‘In what?’ O’Shaughnessy asked.

  ‘The importation and selling of large quantities of illegal drugs.’

  ‘You’re after him as well. He’s a successful man, you’re just a policeman. Jealous, are you?’

  ‘Did he give you the orders to kill three men?’

  ‘Why do you keep reiterating the same old tired questions? Galbraith, do I have to sit here?’

  ‘If you have no more to say, then no.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve got no more to say.’

  ‘So be it,’ Isaac reluctantly agreed and terminated the interview.

  Outside, his senior, DCS Goddard, asked what he thought.

  ‘Fifty years ago, he wouldn’t have had to worry about another five years with cancer.’

  ‘Capital punishment, last hanging in 1964.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. The man’s guilty and no smart defence lawyer, certainly not Galbraith, will get him off.’

  ***

  Later that day, Wendy phoned in. Pinto’s father had formally identified the body. In the meantime, there was still the unresolved matter of Alex Hughenden. Len Donaldson insisted on being present when he was interviewed again. Larry, for once at a loose end, went home early. He had not seen his children for three days as he arrived home late and left early. He knew his wife would be pleased to see him.

  Hughenden was known to be at his shop. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone and DCI Len Donaldson went to pick him up. The front door was locked when they arrived even though it was still early afternoon. Wendy remained at the front while Donaldson went around the back.

  ‘What the –?’ Donaldson shouted on arriving at the back door.

  Wendy, hearing the commotion, rushed to join him.

  ‘It’s not looking good,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘We need some uniforms.’ Wendy took out her phone and called for a crime scene to be set up.

  The two police officers entered through the back door. There was a general sense of chaos, with one chair upended and a box of bracelets spilled over the floor.

  ‘We should wait in case someone else is here,’ Wendy said. Donaldson chose to ignore her.

  He moved along through the small corridor towards the front of the shop. He knew something was wrong; he could sense it. Two uniforms arrived within five minutes. Wendy phoned Isaac to update him. He recommended caution, but Donaldson, a man desperate to break the drug syndicate, was throwing caution to the wind.

  ‘Up here,’ he shouted back. ‘The man’s here.’

  Wendy moved forward, unsure of what she was going to find, but conditioned by her work in Homicide to the sight of a dead body, although she had not wanted to see the dismembered torso of Dougal Stewart.

  ‘At least two hours, I’d say.’ Donaldson looked a disappointed man.

  ‘How did he die?’ Wendy asked, looking at the man sitting in a chair. He looked as if he was asleep.

  ‘Look at his neck.’

  On closer examination, Wendy could see the piano wire wrapped around the man’s throat. ‘Not a good way to go,’ she said.

  ‘What that man could have told us,’ was Donaldson’s only comment.

  ***

  The situation at Challis Street had become frenetic. They had started with a torso in Regent’s Canal, and now they had four bodies. Only two of them had the name of a murderer against them – Devlin O’Shaughnessy – and that man was not willing to talk.

  One thing was clear to Isaac: whoever had murdered Alex Hughenden, it was not O’Shaughnessy; the man had a cast iron alibi as he was locked up in a prison cell.

  ‘His death is inconvenient,’ Donaldson said on his return to Challis Street Police Station.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘On who killed him? None.’

  ‘Why was he murdered?’

  ‘I’m floundering here. Unless those he reported to were scared that he would speak.’

  ‘He was going down for a few years after you found proof that he had been fencing stolen jewellery.’

  ‘I don’t reckon he would have squealed on his superiors,’ Donaldson said. He sat on a chair in Isaac’s office, dejectedly looking down at the floor.

  ‘The CSIs are checking out the murder scene. Maybe they’ll come up with something.’

  ‘There had been a scuffle of some sort.’

  ‘We should get a preliminary report from Windsor in the next couple of hours. In the interim, we should deal with what we’ve got.’

  ‘Apart from a lot of dead bodies.’

  ‘If O’Shaughnessy killed Dougal Stewart and Vicenzo Pinto, then who killed Rodrigo Fuentes and Alex Hughenden?’ Isaac asked. He was not as dejected as his fellow DCI, but he was worried. Once again, a case he was involved in and the bodies were piling up. He knew it would not be long before the commissioner of the London Met, through his mouthpiece DCS Goddard, made his presence known. This time there may be validity in his reaction, due to the number of bodies. Isaac knew that yet again he had to pull out all the stops.

  ‘We’re assuming Fuentes was killed by O’Shaughnessy and Steve Walters,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘And we don’t know where Walters is.’

  ‘You have a case against him?’

  ‘Enough to get him convicted.’

  ‘Then we’d better find him.’

  ‘Could he have killed Hughenden?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It’s possible, although so far his murders have only been messy. With Hughenden, it looked professional.’

  ‘But there was a struggle. As if the man who killed him delayed, allowed his prey to get away. A professional would have just carried out the hit without warning.’

  ‘Are we deducing that he may have known his killer?’

  ‘It’s a theory.’

  ‘A good theory,’ Donaldson said. ‘We need to find Steve Walters.’

  ***

  Wendy Gladstone and Larry Hill were brought into the office. Larry’s early finish to spend time with his children was curtailed due to the importance of wrapping up the deaths of four people.

  ‘What do we know about Steve Walters?’ Isaac asked in the office at Challis Street Police Station.

  ‘He’s a thug. No idea why Hughenden would have used him,’ Larry said.

  ‘Do we have his criminal record?’

  ‘There’s little to recommend him. Incarcerated at fourteen in a borstal for knifing a fellow pupil at school. At seventeen he’s sentenced to two years for shooting a shop owner, a minor wound.’

  ‘It’s not a long sentence,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Mitigating circumstances according to the trial report.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The usual: deprived home, an alcoholic father, his mother had just died. He’s out after serving less than two years. Then there’s a period of seventeen months where there are no reports of him, apart from a drunken brawl outside a pub.’

  ‘After that?’

  ‘He joined the army; served in Iraq and Afghanistan.’

  ‘What as?’

  ‘Special forces. He received a few medals as well,’ Larry said.

  ‘He’d know how to kill someone with piano wire then.’

  ‘He may be a war hero, but Walters is still a nasty piece of work,’ Larry said. ‘Six years later, he’s demobbed and back out on the street. That’s about it for Steve Walters. The next time we hear of him is when he turns up here.’

  ‘And where is he now?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We’ve no idea.’

  As the group sat in the office, Isaac’s phone rang. ‘No fingerprints altho
ugh we picked up a shoe print outside Hughenden’s back door,’ Gordon Windsor said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It matches a set of prints we found at the first murder scene.’

  ‘Steve Walters?’

  ‘That’s the name you have. I only know him by a shoe. Whoever he is, he murdered Alex Hughenden.’

  ‘Now we know who killed Hughenden. Another murder solved,’ Isaac said. ‘Larry, Wendy, find the man.’

  ‘Yes, DCI,’ they both said.

  Chapter 18

  Lord Allerton, a timid man who had only joined the drug syndicate out of financial necessity, paced up and down the drawing room in his ancestral home. The red rope cord barriers that had kept the tourists’ children away from the family heirlooms were long removed. If he could relax, he would have to agree that the room, as well as the house, looked resplendent. He analysed all that had transpired and the trouble he was in.

  On the evening news he had recognised the shop where a man had been murdered. He knew that his relative had been responsible. The aristocrat wondered where it was all going to end. The promise had been three weeks, and then there would be no more drug trafficking, an insidious business more in tune with the lower and middle classes. Not with him, a true blueblood who could claim an ancestry dating back eight hundred years. An Allerton had fought and died bravely in every war the British had fought in. Allertons had risen to high office in politics, in business, in diplomatic circles for generations, but he knew he was unique: he was a criminal, no better than a person who does not pay for their bus ticket or someone who cheats an old woman out of her life savings.

  He looked up at the walls of the room, lined with paintings of his illustrious ancestors. He knew his portrait would not adorn those walls.

  His wife was disturbed by the way her husband paced up and down the room, deep in thought. ‘What is it, Timothy?’ she asked as she gave him a reassuring hug.

  ‘I have done something wrong, terribly wrong. It gives me great anguish.’ His wife knew it was not adultery; she knew him well enough for that.

  ‘Will it help to talk?’ she asked.

  ‘It is not something I can live with.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I cannot tell you. It is too sordid. It will destroy us.’

  The wife, an elegant woman, the daughter of a Duke, knew when it was a time for silence, a time for speaking. She decided to let him talk.

  ‘I became involved with a group of people during our darkest days,’ he said.

  His wife knew exactly which days he was referring to. She had hated cheapening themselves as much as he had when they had been forced by an uncaring, overtaxing government to let in the proletariat.

  ‘But you saved us,’ she said.

  ‘The cost was too high. I must confess,’ he said.

  ‘To God?’

  ‘No. I must confess to the police.’

  Lady Allerton shot up from the chair where she had been sitting. ‘What!’

  ‘My dear wife, you have to know that I have become a criminal.’

  ‘I cannot believe this,’ she said.

  ‘It’s true, all true. Out of necessity, I entered into a business venture with my oldest friends. It was a pact which we made over twenty-five years ago, to always help each other.’

  ‘Why is that criminal?’

  ‘I thought it would save us financially. I did not understand at what cost.’

  ‘But we are all fine.’

  ‘There are others who are not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘One of our group, my relative, is not a good man. We knew he was devious, even criminal, but we did not know of his ruthlessness.’

  ‘What type of crime?’ Allerton’s wife asked.

  ‘I helped to finance a smuggling operation. In return, I received a substantial cash benefit.’

  ‘Smuggling what?’

  ‘Drugs.’

  The woman, who had been supportive, put her head into her hands. ‘How could you?’ she said.

  ‘I had no option: the pact. This house and all we own have been saved because of what I did.’

  ‘Do you think that excuses it. I could deal with the gawking tourists, even the shame of losing this place, but crime, drugs. It’s so working class.’

  Lord Allerton, realising that the life he had known was over, left the room and walked out of the house and to his car. He was aware that it would be many years before he returned.

  He made two phone calls from his mobile. The first was to Jacob Griffiths. ‘You’ve seen the reports of the death on the television?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Griffiths’ reply.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We allowed Keith three weeks to fold up the business.’

  ‘Another murder,’ Allerton said.

  ‘He always said there were a few loose ends to tie up. Obviously that was one of them.’

  ‘You’re not concerned?’

  ‘I’d prefer for no one to die, but I’m more concerned with my freedom and my family’s well-being.’

  ‘I cannot agree,’ Allerton said.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What I should have done after the first death. I intend to hand myself in to the police.’ Allerton hung up. He made another call. ‘DCI Cook, I have some information. I will be in your police station within the next two hours.’

  ‘Your name,’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Lord Allerton. I will reveal all that I know of the death of Alex Hughenden and the drug syndicate.’

  ‘And who’s running it?’

  ‘Yes. I will give you his name.’

  ‘Can you give it to me now?’

  ‘No. I’ll only talk in the presence of my QC. Thank you.’ The phone line went dead.

  Isaac sat back on his chair. He knew he had just received the most bizarre phone call. He called Wendy and Larry back, as well as Bridget.

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ Isaac said to Bridget. ‘Research everything you can on Lord Allerton. Wendy, Larry, focus on what Bridget finds out.’

  ‘What about Steve Walters?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘It depends on what Allerton says, but leave Walters for the moment.’

  ‘What is it with this lord?’ Larry asked.

  ‘He’s coming here, and he’s going to tell us everything, even who is running the drug syndicate.’

  ‘Wow.’ Larry’s only remark.

  Isaac then phoned Len Donaldson. ‘Get over to Challis Street. I believe we have the breakthrough you’ve been looking for.’

  ***

  Jacob Griffiths’ first act on ending the phone conversation with Allerton was to phone Miles Fortescue, the notoriously incompetent politician. ‘Allerton’s going to blow it,’ Griffiths said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fortescue replied, pushing his mistress to one side.

  ‘He’s going to confess.’

  ‘To the police?’

  ‘You realise Keith has had Hughenden murdered?’

  ‘He said he had loose ends to tie up.’

  ‘Tim Allerton’s lost it,’ Griffiths said. ‘If he confesses we’ll be arrested as well.’

  ‘Hell. I thought this was going to be wrapped up.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Phone Keith.’

  Griffiths put Keith, the fourth man and Allerton’s relative, on a group call. ‘Your cousin is on the way to the police.’

  ‘He must be stopped. Where is he now?’

  ‘On the road to the police station.’

  ‘We need to meet him before he gets there.’

  ‘And then?’ Fortescue asked. His mistress had lost interest and gone into the other room to watch the television.

  ‘It depends,’ the leader of the quartet said.

  ‘Would you…?’

  ‘It’s up to him. If he can’t keep his mouth shut...’

  ‘Why did you have to kill Hughenden?’ Griffiths interjected.

  ‘I’ve only done what is n
ecessary, and besides, each of you has an extra million pounds in your bank account. I’m wrapping this business up as we agreed. The police are getting too close, and I intend to make myself scarce.’

  ‘And what about us?’ Fortescue asked.

  ‘From what I know you’re invisible in the Houses of Parliament. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ve dialled in Allerton,’ Griffiths said.

  A nervous voice answered. ‘Allerton,’ it said.

  ‘We need to meet,’ Fortescue said.

  ‘I am resolute. I can no longer continue with this.’

  ‘And what about us?’

  ‘It’s each man for himself.’

  ‘What about our pact?’ Keith asked. He had lifted himself out of the leather chair which was in the corner of the sitting room in his house.

  ‘My wife was right. It was only four schoolboys aiming to be mysterious and grown-up,’ Allerton said.

  ‘You’ve told your wife.’

  ‘Not the details, and not your names.’

  ‘But the police are not fools. They’ll check you out. It won’t take them long to fit the pieces together. Allerton, you’ve stuffed us,’ Griffiths said.

  ‘Not at all. I am doing the only honourable thing left to me. I will not reveal your names.’

  Keith sat down and weighed up the situation. He knew Allerton’s wife would not talk. Her position in society was more important to her than the lives of a few criminals. And if she had to choose between her lifestyle and her husband, he knew which one she would choose. As for Allerton, he could only feel contempt. Keith knew that he had come from the impoverished side of the family – no stately home, no title, no silver spoon – and he had pulled himself up through his own brilliance and sheer willpower. Allerton had just muddled through, and Fortescue was an incompetent lecher. At least Jacob Griffiths had some backbone.

  ‘Can we meet?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Very well,’ Allerton reluctantly agreed. Regardless of his wife, an agreement he had made with three other men, boys then, still meant something to him.

  ‘Fortescue, your place?’ Keith suggested.

  ‘If we must.’

  ‘Is that okay by the other two?’

  ‘Okay by me,’ Griffiths replied.