DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  He looked into another room adjoining the main bedroom. He found the man’s passport, a magnetic ID card, and a bank statement. He briefly looked at the balance on the statement, let out a sigh when he saw the zeros at the end of the total amount.

  ***

  Gwen Barrow had not expected to receive a phone call. She had heard the man’s breathing on the other end. There had been phone calls in the past when no one had spoken, but that was a long time ago, long before she had moved in with Ed. Since then, her life had stabilised, and she could admit to being happy, although the doubt over her first husband always lingered.

  He had indicated on a couple of occasions that his work was at a critical stage and that he was not sure what to do. She had asked him, even once after they had downed a good bottle of red together, but he had not wanted to say more. ‘It’s best if you don’t know,’ he had said.

  Gwen did not know why the phone call had reminded her of her dead husband, but it had. She shivered at the thought of it, as if a ghost had arisen.

  She looked at the number on her phone; it meant nothing to her. She dialled it: busy tone. She did not know why she did not mention it to Ed when he came in later.

  The death of her first husband had troubled her for a long time after the police officer had stood at the door to inform her of his disappearance. She remembered that Ed was the first one from the department where he had worked who had come over to offer his condolences. It was ironic that the two men, her two husbands, had been such great friends. One was academic and intense, the other an able administrator, although not with the same intellect, and one was dead, the other very much alive.

  It was strange, she thought, how life turns out. Her daughter had struggled at school for many years, had drifted into alcohol and recreational drugs and bad men, but now she was married and sensible, holding down a good job. Malcolm’s death had come as a great shock to both mother and daughter, and that it had been suicide when there had been no reason.

  He had phoned her two hours before to tell her that he loved her, always would, and that he would be keeping a watch out for her and their daughter. And then he was gone, apart from a suicide note she received in the mail.

  Ed had been there from the start, although it was sometime before they became lovers, and then husband and wife. He had proven himself to be a good substitute father in accepting her child with Malcolm, so much so that Ed had walked her daughter down the aisle when she had married.

  And now a phone call, the breathing on the other end so recognisable, yet impossible. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind, realised that it was fanciful make-believe. Anyway, she had Ed.

  ***

  Two constants remained in Big Greg’s mind: love and hate. He knew that the hatred for others could not be allowed to destroy the love he felt for his wife and his daughter. But he was aware that the path he was inexorably marching down would threaten that love, possibly exclude some of those he hated.

  Big Greg wondered if Ed’s marriage to Gwen had been a way for him to keep watch on her, not believing that he had walked out into that cold sea and drowned. It had seemed possible that his fears about Ed had been true at first, but now he could see the affection in the man for the two people that he cared about most in the world. They were within touching distance and he could not touch.

  It troubled him greatly. In all the years since he had been declared missing, presumed dead, he had not felt the warmth of a woman alongside him. Now with his fitness regained, he felt the need. He considered an escort; there were plenty available, even the woman at the hostel had been one, he knew. He had seen her accosting men on the street, her dress slit high on one side, her breasts protruding out of her top. Her transformation into a decent citizen had been remarkable, almost as good as his, but she had not murdered anyone; she was free to come and go as she pleased, whereas he had to hide in the shadows.

  Not that he begrudged her. After all, he could have just given them the solution that they wanted, that Ed had wanted, that Arbuthnot and his torturing partner had attempted to extract from him, but he had made his decision, chosen which bed to lie on.

  Big Greg turned away from the entrance to the park where his daughter was gently pushing his granddaughter in a swing. Today was not the day to reveal himself; today was a day for action.

  ***

  Larry, back in the office, conscious of his wedding anniversary, sat with Bridget. The two were looking through the evidence that he had brought back from Arbuthnot’s bedroom. The photo album, only small, no more than fifty photos, most of his travels, was not of much interest, save for three photos with four people in each, including Arbuthnot.

  ‘The sort of photos you’d take at a department’s Christmas party,’ Bridget said. Larry could see what she meant.

  ‘Unusual,’ Larry said. ‘Most people take those photos, never look at them again, and, nowadays they’re stored on a smartphone, not in an album.’

  The passport revealed that the man had travelled extensively, sometimes to countries off the beaten track, but there was nothing suspicious in that. Bridget had discovered, as had Isaac through Goddard’s contact, that the man was a facilitator, putting together deals with foreign governments that were not by their nature illegal, but would be regarded as dubious.

  Larry thought it must be something to do with weapons sales, which made sense, in that the British Government, or any government, is not averse to selling weapons, although some of those purchasing them could be less than democratic, more likely to shoot their own people or attack the neighbouring country, even give the weapons to terrorists.

  Whatever it was, George Arbuthnot was not a middle-ranking civil servant. Bridget had checked the man’s bank statement, and found it to be genuine.

  The photos continued to be of interest. Bridget had taken enhanced photos of each of the individuals and was attempting to match them with the police database. Not that she held out much hope for success as the people in the photos, four men and three women in total, showed no distinguishing features.

  Putting the photos to one side, Bridget checked the phone numbers on Arbuthnot’s mobile phone; most were of no interest, although some were clearly government.

  Larry called some of them to see if he could find out whose they were. It was assumed that most would be unlisted, especially if, as suspected, Arbuthnot was involved in the selling of weapons.

  Larry left Bridget and went to speak with Isaac; the man was deep in thought when he entered. ‘What is it, guv?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘DCS Goddard.’

  ‘You’ve got it. Arbuthnot’s death is causing waves.’

  ‘Waves? What do you mean?’

  ‘The sort of waves that tell us Arbuthnot was more important than he appeared to be.’

  ‘We know that already.’

  ‘The man’s passport?’

  ‘I reckon he was up to no good for the British arms industry.’

  ‘That’s what Goddard inferred, although I’ve no idea what it all means, and his murderer, who the hell is he?’

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s out there, and he would not have killed without reason.’

  ‘Anything more on him?’ Isaac asked. Larry could see that Goddard, and by inference Commissioner Alwyn Davies, was placing special emphasis on the Challis Street Homicide department, and yet again the British Government was involved.

  ‘Wendy’s trying, but the man disappears. We have an approximate idea of what he looks like. We’ve issued an APW on him, but, apart from his height, he’ll blend in easily enough, and if he has any experience, if he’s involved with Arbuthnot, maybe the same line of business, he’ll be able to stay concealed.’

  ‘What about the formulas and the technical drawings in the notebook? Anything more?’

  ‘Bridget’s tried, but no.’

  ‘Why did he kill Bob Robertson? That’s the one question that confuses me,’ Isaac said. ‘The man’s remained hidden, hiding out as a tr
amp, sleeping under bridges, eating at charitable hostels when he could, and then he kills a man for no apparent reason, and then he cleans himself up and goes on a killing spree.’

  ‘It’s hardly a spree,’ Larry said.

  ‘It is, and you know it. Once they start, these sorts of people don’t stop. There’ll be more murders.’

  ‘Serial killer?’

  ‘Not this man. He’s methodical, and he’s working to a plan. Arbuthnot’s death was not random; the man was tied to him, I’m sure of it, but how do we find out who else was involved?’

  ‘Your political connections, MI5, MI6?’

  ‘I’ve no intention of trusting McTavish again.’

  ‘You still believe he was implicated in the deaths in a previous case?’

  ‘He was involved. Always made out he wasn’t, and now he’s sitting in the House of Lords. If I contacted him, he’d give me answers, but I’ve no idea if they’d be the right answers, not even sure if it would help.’

  ‘We’re floundering here. We need a breakthrough from somewhere,’ Larry said.

  Isaac knew that his DI was correct. Unless the connections were made, then the chances of finding Big Greg were slim. He wondered what sort of man could conceal himself by living on the street, given that the man recited poetry, wrote complicated formulas in notebooks, and killed civil servants who appeared to be involved in arms trading.

  Isaac knew that it was going to become more involved as they peeled away the layers, and almost certainly more dangerous. If men such as Bob Robertson could be killed to maintain a secret, if Arbuthnot could be killed, probably for revenge, then how far would Big Greg go? Would he consider a police officer expendable if he started to get below the first few layers that concealed the truth? Isaac knew he had not become a detective chief inspector out of some false naivety. He knew that the man would kill as necessary, whatever the reason.

  Chapter 13

  The office had a commanding view of the city, an imported desk and a high-backed leather chair. It was a suitable office for Ed Barrow, the director of the research department and the husband of Big Greg’s former wife, or as the two men in the room knew him, Malcolm Woolston.

  ‘Why after all these years?’ Barrow said to the man sitting opposite.

  ‘Are we certain?’

  ‘It’s him, no question.’

  ‘Have you told your wife?’ the man opposite said. The two men knew who they were referring to. One was his friend who had consoled his wife after he had died, the other man, older and wiser, had realised the importance of the work he had been doing, ensured that the funding, secretive, well hidden, and government, was available as required. Neither of the two men in the office trusted the other, although it did not matter. With Woolston back, both their livelihoods, their reputations, their lives were at stake.

  ‘I hope it never gets to that stage,’ Barrow replied.

  ‘He’s marked for death?’

  ‘We need his knowledge first.’

  ‘If he gets away again, you know what he could do?’

  ‘No more than he could do now. The risk remains the same.’

  ‘On your head, you know that.’

  ‘I know it,’ Barrow replied.

  ‘It’s complicated in that you married his wife.’

  ‘That was unforeseen.’

  ‘It’ll be personal with him.’

  ‘The man was dead. I married his widow. What’s the problem?’

  ‘If she ever finds out that you never believed him to be dead.’

  ‘She never will. Not from me. Will you tell her?’ Barrow said.

  ‘If he’s standing in front of me, gun in hand, what do you think?’

  ‘You’ll cry like a baby, tell him whatever he wants to hear, do whatever he wants.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Once I have the upper hand, I’ll kill him without hesitation.’

  ‘Is that what Arbuthnot would have done?’

  ‘The man was a savage. You were there when he and that other man went to work on him. You saw how they held Woolston down, pummelled his face to a pulp, applied electric shocks, threatened his family.’

  ‘Malcolm is a tough bastard. He’ll protect them at all costs.’

  ‘He’ll come for them if they’re threatened again.’

  ‘You’d use them as bait?’

  ‘If they’re threatened, he’ll give himself up. Is that why you married his wife?’

  ‘Not totally.’

  ‘Barrow, you’re a bastard.’

  A smile crept across Barrow’s face. He knew that he loved his wife, Gwen, even her daughter, but the stakes were bigger than either of them. He knew how to get Malcolm Woolston to give himself up, and this time the man would not be able to get free.

  ***

  Big Greg realised that he should have dealt before with those who had caused him to adopt a life of the destitute, but it had been Robertson who had been the catalyst to cause him to return.

  All those years of being careful, and then, in one instance, Robertson had revealed that he, Big Greg, was still alive. There was no way that they would have missed the alert. For once, there was indisputable proof that he was still alive, although he always suspected that they thought that he was. After all, hadn’t he phoned his wife to tell her that he’d be looking out for her the same day as he had disappeared. Ed Barrow must have read the signal, even if Gwen had not, and now the man was sitting at his table, sleeping with his wife.

  Barrow should be the first, but he could wait. Big Greg had to make sure that his family were safe. He needed to let them know that he was alive, and they should disappear for a while. Only then could he act. But he knew that would not be possible. His daughter would not leave her husband without wanting to tell him, and emotionally how would she handle the knowledge that the father she had mourned, and in whose memory she still placed flowers on a plaque in the local cemetery every Sunday, was still alive. He could only imagine her reaction if he knocked on her door and announced himself.

  It was clear that he would not be able to spirit them away, and where would they go? His funds were limited, it would be difficult to conceal them, and there was no way that they could become part of the homeless, not his daughter with a child. The options were few, and he was worried. A can of worms had been opened, and it was not going to close until all the worms were dead.

  Big Greg had seen the man that he needed to visit next, leaving Ed Barrow’s office. He phoned Ed Barrow. ‘Leave them alone,’ he said when Barrow answered the phone.

  ‘Malcolm, where are you?’ Barrow replied. ‘My office door is always open.’

  ‘Not a chance. I’m giving you fair warning. If you harm my family, then you’re next.’

  ‘Look here, Malcolm, you stay hidden for all these years, and then you come back and start ordering me around. What right do you have?’

  ‘I have all the right. I knew what you were planning. How you intended to steal what I was developing and then to sell it to the highest bidder.’

  ‘No such thing.’

  ‘Arbuthnot talked. He was my proof. I have it on record.’

  ‘And what are you going to do with it? Tell the press, inform the prime minister. Get real, nobody’s interested in a few ratbag countries.’

  ‘You know that’s nonsense. It could give England a great financial benefit, a chance for low-cost energy, only you want to use it to make weapons of war.’

  ‘That’s how the world works. You may have your idealistic views, but this is the real world, and who do you think is funding us?’

  ‘The military?’

  ‘And where do they get their money?’

  ‘Your people didn’t come up with the solution after all these years?’

  ‘You knew they never would, and besides, where are you? Where were you?’

  ‘I was around.’

  ‘I never believed that phoney story about you drowning.’

&
nbsp; ‘Yet you married Gwen.’

  ‘Why not? She’s a lovely woman; she could have still been your wife if you hadn’t had one of your psychotic episodes.’

  ‘They were not psychotic, they were real.’

  ‘Malcolm, real enough to you, but none of it happened. Arbuthnot may have been a bastard dealing in military weapons, but he was a government employee, and he did not deserve to die.’

  Big Greg realised there was some truth in what Barrow said. He had had the occasional episodes of madness, enough to have been confined to a mental institution for short periods where they had sedated him and fed him pills, and subjected him to lengthy discussions with psychoanalysts. But that had been before, and during his homeless period, he had not felt the need to talk to anyone, and the dreams that had plagued him had been strangely absent.

  ‘You talk well, Ed, but I can’t trust you. Once I’m up there in your office, you’ll have me locked up in a padded cell.’

  ‘Not me, Malcolm. Think about it, remember the past.’

  ‘I saw you with Hutton.’

  ‘The old man?’ Ed enquired, jumping up from his seat to look out of the window, trying to catch sight of a man who had once been his friend.

  ‘You’ll not see me. I see you’re still wearing a suit to work.’

  Ed Barrow reacted with alarm; he pressed another button on his desk. A woman came running in, Barrow told her to be quiet. ‘Malcolm Woolston,’ he mouthed, pointing to the phone in his hand.

  ‘Tell Sue Christie not to bother. You’ll not find me.’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Barrow asked.

  ‘I’m not far. I can see you well enough. Are you still screwing Sue?’

  Barrow moved to the window of his office, looked out at the buildings nearby. The sun was reflecting off their windows. It was impossible to distinguish who was looking back.

  ‘I’m smarter than that, you should know that.’

  ‘What is it? A camera?’