Murder in Room 346

by Phillip Strang

  Murder in Room 346

  Phillip Strang

  BOOKS BY PHILLIP STRANG

  DCI Isaac Cook Series

  MURDER IS A TRICKY BUSINESS

  MURDER HOUSE

  MURDER IS ONLY A NUMBER

  MURDER IN LITTLE VENICE

  MURDER IS THE ONLY OPTION

  MURDER IN NOTTING HILL

  MURDER IN ROOM 346

  MURDER WITHOUT REASON

  DI Keith Tremayne Series

  DEATH UNHOLY

  DEATH AND THE ASSASSIN’S BLADE

  DEATH AND THE LUCKY MAN

  DEATH AT COOMBE FARM

  Steve Case Series

  HOSTAGE OF ISLAM

  THE HABERMAN VIRUS

  PRELUDE TO WAR

  Standalone Books

  MALIKA’S REVENGE

  Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2018 Phillip Strang

  Cover Design by Phillip Strang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service.

  Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com

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  Dedication

  For Eli and Tais, who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 1

  ‘Coitus interruptus, that’s what it is,’ Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook said. It was to be the only attempt at humour that day, and even then, it was in bad taste. On the bed, in a downmarket hotel in Bayswater, lay the naked bodies of a man and a woman.

  ‘Bullet in the head’s not the way to go,’ Larry Hill, Isaac Cook’s detective inspector, said. He had not expected such a flippant comment from his senior, not when they were standing near to two people who had, apparently in the final throes of passion, succumbed to what appeared to be a professional assassination.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’

  ‘James Holden, from what I can see.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘According to the driving licence in her purse, her name was Helen Langdon. There’s an address in Kensington, good street.’

  ‘Judging by her clothes, she had plenty of money.’

  ‘An attractive woman, or at least, she was.’

  Isaac Cook could understand what his DI meant. The woman was not so attractive sprawled across the bed, the blood congealing on her and the sheets.

  ‘No idea what she saw in him,’ Larry said.

  ‘Rent by the hour?’

  ‘Not according to her handbag. There’s a business card. She worked for the man.’

  Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner, came over. ‘Apart from you two talking while I’m trying to focus, I’ll give you what I’ve found so far.’

  ‘You know this will be all over the media within the hour,’ Isaac said.

  ‘James Holden, moral crusader, a proponent of the sanctity of the marital bed, man and wife. It’s bound to be.’

  ‘The man preaches one thing, practises another.’

  ‘They’ve all got hidden secrets. Anyway, this is what we have,’ Windsor said. ‘Helen Langdon, age thirty-two, James Holden, age seventy-two. Both have been shot in the head.’

  ‘Whoever did this knew what they were doing,’ Larry said. ‘Somehow the person managed to get into the room unseen, and then get close enough to the pair to hold the gun to each of their heads.’

  ‘They were occupied, maybe they didn’t look,’ Isaac said.

  ‘We’ll check, but it’s clear that they were indulging in sexual intercourse.’

  ‘The man was seventy-two,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It’s alright for you young studs,’ Windsor said, ‘but let me tell you, life is not over at fifty.’

  ‘But James Holden was not fit, and he was always preaching against this sort of thing,’ Larry said.

  ‘I can only give you the facts,’ Windsor said. ‘Why the man was here with a young woman is for you to find out. And why he was killed, that’s up to you. Their bodies will be with Pathology later today. I suggest you ask there in a day or so for any more information, but they’ll only confirm what I’ve just said.’

  Isaac knew that Windsor was correct in his evaluation. They had known each other for many years, he, the first-generation English-born son of Jamaican parents, and Gordon Windsor, the smallish, rotund man in his late fifties.

  Back in the office at Challis Street Police Station, Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, the best person if you needed to find someone, and Bridget Halloran, who ran the office, would already be preparing the case for the prosecution.

  Wendy and Bridget were firm friends, sharing a house since Wendy’s husband had died and Bridget had kicked out her layabout live-in lover.

  DI Larry Hill maintained an uneasy truce with his wife and her faddish diets, but he was looking a lot better since she and his DCI had ganged up on him to moderate his food intake and the pints of beer.

  The only thorn in the side of the Homicide department was Seth Caddick, a man who had once temporarily occupied Isaac’s seat as the senior investigating officer in Homicide, only to be unceremoniously eased out after Isaac had solved the case, but now he was back, and this time as his senior. The sycophantic, and to Isaac incompetent, Caddick had somehow managed to attain the rank of Detective Superintendent, and he was in Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard’s office, and he was in charge.

  Isaac Cook had respected Goddard, a man who had got on the wrong side of the London Metropolitan Police commissioner, Alwyn Davies. Caddick, a man who for some reason always came up smelling of roses, had been quick to claim it was his leadership that ensured the enviable success rate of the Homicide department, when it was clearly Isaac and his team.

  Not that it concerned Isaac unduly, as Goddard had explained that Caddick’s tenure was to be short-lived, but it was already five months, and the man continued to irritate and interfere.

  ***

  Back in the office at Challis Street, Isaac gathered the team. He had phoned Caddick out of courtesy, knowing the man’s reaction if he was ignored. Isaac had come close to insubordina
tion on a couple of occasions, and Goddard, his former senior, had told him to play the game and not to rile the man.

  Isaac wasn’t sure how much longer he could put up with Caddick. The man continued to be a mediocre performer, and morale was down, with a few people transferring out of Challis Street, some others just resigning. So far, none of Isaac’s core team had left, and he was hopeful he could keep it that way.

  ‘Bridget, what do we have?’ Isaac asked. The woman was computer-savvy, and she could find out things about a person that no one else could.

  ‘James Aloysius Holden, age seventy-two, married to Violet Holden, two children. John, age thirty-seven, a lawyer. His sister, Linda, age thirty-three, a social worker.’

  ‘Helen Langdon was younger than his daughter,’ Larry said.

  ‘It sounds indecent to me,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Bridget, carry on. We can discuss the age difference afterwards.’

  ‘James Holden, Member of Parliament, self-professed moral crusader, a staunch advocate for prison reform and controls on the internet. And also, a believer in one man, one woman, and total fidelity.’

  ‘Not practising what he preaches,’ Larry said.

  ‘They’re all the same,’ Wendy said. She was in her fifties, troubled with arthritis, and putting on weight after giving up a lifetime habit of smoking. She was not an admirer of those born with a silver spoon in their mouth, or the hypocrites in society who preach one thing, do another.

  ‘Not all,’ Isaac said, ‘but in this case, there’s some explaining to do. What do we know about his wife?’

  ‘She’s been notified,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Wendy, it may be best if you come with me. Do we have her address?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Ebury Street, Belgravia. We can be there in twenty-five minutes.’

  As Isaac and Wendy were preparing to leave, in walked their superintendent, Seth Caddick. ‘Where are you off to?’ he said.

  ‘We’re going to interview the dead man’s wife,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Very well. Keep me updated, and make sure your report is in on time.’

  Caddick walked out of the office. Larry turned to Isaac. ‘How can you put up with him, guv?’ he said.

  ‘Play the game, play the game,’ Isaac said. ‘The man’s only keeping the seat warm.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘That’s the word,’ Isaac replied with a wry smile.

  ‘And who’ll run Homicide?’

  ‘Are you up to it?’

  ‘I reckon so. I just need to pass one more exam, and then I’ll be looking for a promotion.’

  ‘As long as you stay with Homicide.’

  ‘My wife’s not so keen, not after the time I ended up in the hospital courtesy of a local gang.’

  ‘That can happen walking down the street,’ Isaac said, realising that it wasn’t entirely accurate. The only reason Larry had not died was due to the ineptitude of his assailants. He had been interviewing a homeless man who had witnessed a murder. His attackers had subsequently dealt with the witness with a knife in the heart.

  After the short discussion with Larry, Isaac and Wendy drove out to Ebury Street. ‘Nice houses,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Out of my budget,’ Wendy replied. She feigned disinterest, although Isaac knew she appreciated the beauty of the buildings.

  Outside the Holden home, an elegant three-storey, late Georgian, white-painted house, a uniform stood. ‘The media has been around. I’m here to deter anyone knocking on the door,’ he said. Wendy could tell that he would have preferred to have been anywhere else than at the door of a moral crusader’s home, as it was cold and raining, not an unusual occurrence for the time of year.

  From inside the house, the door was opened by a man in his thirties. ‘My mother is resting,’ he said.

  Ushered into a room on the left of the hallway, the two police officers waited. A woman entered and placed a tray on the table in front of where they sat. ‘Madam will be here soon. The tea’s freshly brewed,’ she said before leaving.

  Violet Holden entered the room. She was helped by John Holden, her son. ‘It’s come as a great shock to my mother, to all of us,’ he said. He was a man of about medium height, his hair cut short, his fingernails manicured, his suit of the best quality.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Violet Holden said.

  ‘I’m sorry that it’s under such circumstances.’

  ‘Is it true what they’re reporting?’ the woman asked. ‘We’d been married for over forty years. I thought I knew the man, and this has come as a shock.’

  ‘His death?’

  ‘I assumed he’d die in the Houses of Parliament, or in some committee or other, even in one of those prisons he frequented, but they’re reporting that he was found in bed with another woman. Was it Helen?’

  ‘Helen Langdon. Yes, it was. What can you tell me about her, about your husband?’

  ‘My husband was a saint. It must have been her.’

  ‘Can we come back to your husband,’ Isaac said. Holden’s wife was taking it badly, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of her husband’s murder or his adultery.

  ‘What do you want me to tell you? He can’t have been with that woman willingly.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there’s no question that he was.’

  ‘Is this necessary? My mother is under a great deal of strain,’ John Holden said.

  ‘If Mrs Holden is up to it, we should continue,’ Isaac said.

  Violet Holden patted her son on the arm. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.

  ‘Your husband was at a hotel in Bayswater. Do you know of any reason why he would choose there?’

  ‘To be with Helen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We had advised our father about employing her, but he wouldn’t listen,’ John Holden said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Our father was a great believer in the rehabilitation of criminals after they had served their sentences. Helen had spent time in prison.’

  Isaac turned to Wendy. ‘Bridget missed that,’ he said quietly, ensuring that no one else heard.

  ‘Her name in prison was Helen Mackay.’

  ‘The Helen Mackay!’

  ‘She changed her name on leaving prison at my father’s suggestion.’

  ‘And your father was part of the rehabilitation process?’

  ‘She was released due to him.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘On several occasions. She was pleasant and respectful, devoted to James,’ Violet said. ‘And now my husband’s association with her has got him killed.’

  ‘Until you mentioned her name, we had assumed the reason for their deaths was your husband,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Who would have wanted to kill my husband?’

  ‘He must have made powerful enemies. His attempts at censorship must have raised the hackles of a few.’

  ‘My husband wasn’t an idealistic bigot. He was a man who had a strong conviction of what was right and wrong.’

  ‘And he’s strayed,’ Isaac said.

  ‘My husband was a complex man. There were times when his moral crusade became too much for him. Times when he needed to let off steam.’

  ‘This is not the first time?’

  ‘It’s the first time with a woman. Sometimes he wanted to come home, put his feet up, have a drink of something strong.’

  ‘Mother, I don’t think you should be saying this,’ her son said.

  ‘Why not? They’re police officers, and they need to know certain facts. And what does it matter? Your father, my husband, has been caught in bed with another woman, and not only that, with Helen Mackay. How do you think your father’s legacy is going to stand up when it’s revealed that he’s been caught in flagrante delicto with a woman who bashed her elderly husband to death with a hammer?’

  ‘Her defence argued it was self-defence, mitigating circumstances,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Did anyone believe her when she said she had married for love?’ Vi
olet Holden said.

  ‘Did you?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Nobody did. Her husband was wealthy, old, and likely to die at any time, and there in the court was a woman in her twenties with a dubious past. The popular press had condemned her the moment she entered the court.’

  ‘The judge believed her. That’s why she only received seven years.’

  ‘Out in four. My husband believed in her as well, and then she slept with him, destroying his reputation.’

  ‘Mrs Holden, you don’t believe that your husband was coerced, do you?’

  ‘My husband was the same as any other man. Underneath that exterior there was a man of flesh and blood. A man who liked the occasional drink, the occasional woman, the occasional sin.’

  ‘Was this the first time?’

  ‘With Helen, yes.’

  ‘With others?’

  ‘I never knew, although I suspected he did from time to time.’

  ‘Mother, you’re maligning my father.’

  ‘Don’t pretend, John. You knew what he was like, the same as you.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Moral crusader, serial philanderer, is that what we’ve got here?’ Larry Hill said. The team were back in Homicide at Challis Street Police Station. Thankfully, Detective Superintendent Seth Caddick was not in the building; he was at his favourite place, Scotland Yard, pressing the flesh of whoever he could find, especially Commissioner Alwyn Davies.

  Isaac Cook, once seen as an example of the modern police force, knew his star was not shining brightly with the commissioner. When it had been Commissioner Shaw in charge of the London Metropolitan Police, and Richard Goddard his chief superintendent, Isaac’s moves on the promotion ladder seemed fine, but he and Goddard had languished under Davies, and Isaac was still a DCI and Goddard had been sidelined into Public Relations.

  The problem with Alwyn Davies, according to Isaac and Goddard, was that the man was an incompetent who surrounded himself with other incompetents. There were others, Detective Superintendent Seth Caddick included, who believed that Davies was a man who recognised true ability. It was an impossible situation, Isaac knew, and he had put up with Caddick for almost half a year, and he intended to see the demise of the man’s career. The only problem was that as the Homicide team succeeded, so did Caddick, and the man was not slow in pointing it out.