DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  Caxton was out and about, buying McDonald's one day, a pizza the next. O’Grady was not so visible, although he had been seen in a local gym pushing weights. Both men were feared in the area, both as likely to grab someone by the collar than wish them a good day.

  If they were to be brought in, Emily knew, it would have to be one at a time. Indications were that they would not come voluntarily. Neither had committed any offence in England, not in recent years, although Caxton had picked up more parking fines than most, but that wasn’t an arrestable offence as he had paid them all on time. O’Grady had nothing against him.

  The hotel in Brussels where Caxton and O’Grady stayed had been found, the bill paid, no trouble from either man, although they had drunk too much in the bar. Isaac knew the case was weak, and he could bring them in, but a smart lawyer would have them out within a couple of hours. Ralph Lawrence would testify, but only if Frost had murdered his father and was locked up, otherwise he wasn’t going to confront the lender of no hope and his henchman purely on the say-so of the police that they would protect him. They had not managed to protect Michael, and he had seen the police protection already offered to him and his family: minimal at best, useless if the truth were known. No doubt subject to budgetary constraints or some other jargon that everyone seemed to use.

  ‘The kneecapped man, what about him?’ Isaac said to Larry. They were out of the office, walking around Gilbert Lawrence’s mansion, trying to go over what they had so far. Arresting Frost looked possible, especially if they could get Caxton or O’Grady to break. But Frost had no apparent connection to Gilbert’s death, no prior knowledge that Ralph and Gilbert had been related.

  Inside the previously bolted off main section of the building, the two police officers could see that the CSIs had been careful, no fingerprints, no footprints, but they had walked through with their equipment, and the floor, previously covered in dust, had been disturbed. Larry and Isaac had ensured to put on gloves and overshoes and to let Gordon Windsor know that they were in the house, a matter of courtesy rather than a procedural requirement. They climbed the sweeping staircase, the steps creaking as they moved. It was not a pleasant place to be, still smelling of decay and death, although the death was more imagined than real.

  At the top of the stairs, a cold breeze. Larry froze, not sure what to do. He had read his children a bedtime story the previous night, a fairy tale about a princess in a draughty castle. It was recommended for ages five to seven, although it had a touch of the melodrama about it, not that it concerned them at the time, or even him. But now he and his senior were in that castle, even though it was smaller, and the princess, a dead body, had been in the second room along the landing. Isaac opened the door, saw that the bed remained, although the body was long gone. He phoned Picket in Pathology. ‘Any reason why you can’t release Dorothy Lawrence for burial?’

  ‘I’ll write the death certificate.’

  Isaac phoned Caroline Dickson to tell her; she was relieved.

  Outside the mansion, decaying after such a long time of neglect, the two officers stood to one side of where Molly Dempster had found Gilbert lying on the ground. The area was still marked off, but the grass had since grown.

  ‘It could still be Ralph, even though he was with the Spanish police,’ Isaac said.

  ‘He could have arranged someone else. Not Caxton and O’Grady, bulls in a china shop, those two.’

  Chapter 30

  Jill Dundas made contingency plans. There had just been too much interest in Gilbert’s death, too much sentimentalising about Michael’s death, too much morbid interest in Dorothy. Her father had been a brilliant man, a man to be revered, but he was not mentioned, while a drug addict and a skeleton were given preference.

  The popular press continued to write on the subject. Michael’s death, and the subsequent arrest of a known agitator for involuntary manslaughter, raised speculation in the scurrilous newspapers and on social media about the possibility of demonic practices in the case of Dorothy, the sacrificial death of Gilbert, the just reward from God for Michael’s death.

  Jill knew that none of it was true, but it was not possible to give a truthful account of all that had transpired. Gilbert had indeed been senile but showing moments of lucidity. His business mind had remained detached from his social behaviour: the death of his wife Dorothy unhinging him for many years. It was only her father who had been able to get near to the man, and he had known, he must have, of the horror that was on the second floor of the mansion. But not once did her father reveal what had been committed, not until the last few months when she came to know that her father’s time was up, the doctor picking up an ongoing degradation in his health, a fluctuation in his heart.

  ‘Jill, you must know the truth,’ he had said. It was late at night, and he had been sitting in his favourite chair, a glass of port in his hand. As she sat there, he recounted the saga of Gilbert Lawrence, Dorothy’s death, the irrational and unsound mind of his friend as if he was having a brainstorm, the pressure too much for the most lucid of men. It had been her father’s decision to ensure Gilbert Lawrence’s legacy. It had required the signature of the great man, gladly given as he suffered, unsure whether he was alive or dead. After that, her father had told her, Gilbert vacillated between sanity and utter madness, not willing to leave the prison he had created. The trips to the off-licence, even though they had commenced years previously, were the man’s attempts to reconnect.

  Her father had convinced her that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie, and not to resurrect the past, to never let on what had happened in that house to that man, that woman. Dorothy had been an ill woman for a long time, her father said. A woman who had hurled herself off the top step of the staircase, dying at the bottom, not from a broken neck, but from despair complicated by grief over her son, anger with her daughter for marrying Desmond and moving away, from internal bleeding.

  ‘Don’t you understand,’ Leonard said that night to Jill, ‘Gilbert blamed them all. Dorothy for dying, Ralph for what he had become, Caroline for upsetting her mother. It was only me that he would see, not Molly. She raised other emotions in him, not that I always understood why, but he cared for her. He never mentioned an affair, but…’

  And now Jill knew about Ralph, and Molly being his mother. Legally it did not impact on Gilbert’s last will and testament, although it may give her leverage, a means to delay what would become certain in time: that Gilbert had been mad, but he was becoming saner, and even at his advanced age he had decided to ease out of seclusion and to take control of his empire, to make his peace with his family.

  ***

  The man didn’t phone often, but Frost knew he was worth the monthly retainer that he paid, a package left under a bench at the entrance to Greenwich Observatory on the first Thursday of every month at eight thirty-three in the evening, the man arriving at the spot two minutes later. The news was disturbing. Caxton and O’Grady were liable to be picked up at any time. Frost trusted Caxton, not so much O’Grady. The evidence was flimsy, and the police technique would be to arrest the men, pressure them heavily and hope that one would crack. He knew one of them would; he could not take a chance.

  Frost knew that it was all due to Ralph Lawrence, a malignant sore of no worth. Lawrence had brought the police to his doorstep, and they were putting two and two together, coming up with three, but soon it would be four. And then it would be him at the police station, the connections made with Lawrence, with Belgium. A private man, Frost knew that if he wanted to stay where he was, free and not in prison, he would need to break the links joining him to the crimes that had been committed.

  Inside his penthouse, he summoned one of his men. ‘How do you like fishing?’ he said.

  ‘We go out occasionally, rent a boat not far from here.’

  ‘Good. Take your partner out today. Make sure he doesn’t come back.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘It is better that you don’t know. And make sure that he
rents the boat and picks you up somewhere else, somewhere you will not be seen.’

  ‘Are there more?’

  ‘The first must be today. The others, if there are to be any, we will discuss after you return.’

  Frost, a man who did not procrastinate, felt calmer, confident that he was making the right decision. Two previous decisions were proving troublesome, he knew that. First, the murder of Samuels, motivated more by the man’s intransigence about paying the interest, although he had repaid the principal, done as a warning, and then lending money to the weak and insignificant son of Gilbert Lawrence.

  Another phone call from his informer. ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ Two words only, but it was enough for Frost. The police were getting closer, and he could not hold them at bay indefinitely. Whatever he did, he needed to ensure his survival, Caxton’s if he could, but if he couldn’t, then he would have tried. Frost logged onto his laptop, checked his bank accounts. He started transferring money out of the country: somewhere warmer, somewhere that not too many questions were asked, somewhere he did not want to go, but freedom was better than the alternatives.

  By the time he had finished two hours had passed. He had seen the boat go by on the Thames. It was not a large boat but sufficient for two. In the small cabin, dressed in wet weather gear, was Hector O’Grady. Further down the river, close to where Caxton had parked his car, O’Grady would pull in before the two men headed out into deeper water, a fishing spot that both knew. Fishing was a passion of O’Grady’s, and Caxton had been out with him on a few occasions, invariably bagging more fish.

  ‘Unusual for the boss to let us off for a few hours,’ O’Grady said.

  Caxton looked over at the man he regarded as a friend. The water was choppy, the beer was cold, and both men had to admit to enjoying themselves. A container ship went past, its wake rocking the small boat. O’Grady’s rod started to move, a fish testing the bait, and then the rod bent further, the fish hooked.

  ‘I’ve got one,’ O’Grady said. He started reeling in the line, the fish fighting him, Caxton to one side leaning over the stern of the boat, a net in his hand ready to scoop up what had been caught.

  ‘Keep the net there,’ O’Grady shouted.

  Caxton took two steps back and drew a small gun from his pocket. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘The boss wants you out.’ He pulled the trigger and shot twice, one in the back and another in the man’s neck, his aim deflected by the rocking of the boat.

  Lying prostrate on the boat’s decking, his fishing rod discarded, O’Grady gasped, ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ Caxton said. He retook aim and shot O’Grady through the brain. He then pulled up the anchor, secured it firmly to the body of his former partner and then threw him over the side. With the man sinking to the bottom of the river, Caxton started the engine on the boat and headed for shore. Once he was within ten yards of it, he turned the boat around and pointed its bow out into deeper water. He then took his gun and shot two holes in the wooden hull, before enlarging them with a safety axe that had been secured to a bulkhead. He set the throttle to maximum, the engine revving, the boat gaining momentum. He then jumped over the side of the boat and swam to shore, although he almost didn’t make it as the cold water sapped his strength. Ashore, he made for his car, felt on top of the front offside tyre, and retrieved a key. He started the engine and turned on the heater. On the back seat, dry clothes and a towel.

  Chapter 31

  The number that O’Grady had phoned from the village of Herzele in Belgium had been traced back to Gary Frost. Even more evidence for the case against him. The content of the conversation that had lasted for less than one minute was not known.

  A sorry-looking man was brought into Greenwich Police Station at two in the afternoon. He had not resisted when Emily Matson took him into custody on suspicion of murder, as well as the grievous bodily harm of Ralph Lawrence. The kneecapped man was still not willing to talk. The evidence in both cases was dependent on Caxton admitting that he was guilty, and Larry had been with her when the arrest was made. There was no sign of Hector O’Grady, and the low-key surveillance of the two men had missed his disappearance.

  Technically the murder of Steve Samuels was the responsibility of the Belgian police force, and Inspecteur Hougardy was on his way to England, although he wouldn’t be present in Greenwich for the first interview with the man who had been detained. The proof was flimsy, purely a chain of events leading to an inevitable conclusion, and although Caxton and O’Grady had been identified by two people in Herzele, another in the hotel in Brussels where they had checked in under false names, there were no fingerprints, no forensic evidence. Emily would be conducting the interview, her first of a murderer. Larry would also be in the interview room, and Isaac would be outside, chafing at the bit, knowing that he would go in harder than the other two, although he hoped that Larry had learnt enough by now to get Caxton flustered and to make the man contradict himself.

  Alongside Caxton sat the offensive figure of Edward Sharman, which surprised Isaac, not sure how the man, a singularly ill-mannered and belligerent person, had managed to find his way across the river. Sharman was competent, Isaac knew that, good at getting the guilty off on a technicality. Isaac knew that DIs Matson and Hill had drawn the short straw. They were going to be hard pushed to break through, and Sharman would be doing the majority of the talking for his client.

  Outside in the reception area of the police station, Gary Frost was conspicuous by his absence.

  A full team of uniforms had been mobilised, even bringing in more manpower from Challis Street, to look for Hector O’Grady. The last that had been known of him was that he had gone out fishing, not unusual in itself, the man at the boat shed said. ‘Hector, he’s keen, even when the weather’s not good. No doubt he takes some liquid refreshments to keep him warm. Always brings the boat back in good condition, even cleans it for me. And yes, he took it out yesterday, not a good day, but the fish should have been biting, not that I’d eat them myself, too small mainly, but Hector, he would have. Tough guy from what I’ve been told, but when the boat never came back, that’s when I started worrying.’

  The evidence about the boat was still coming through; another fisherman had seen it sink into the water. The detective inspector who resented Emily Matson usurping him, especially with the trip to Brussels, had been assigned to look for O’Grady. It had been a direct order from his superintendent, a directive he accepted graciously, although he had been seething behind his clenched teeth. ‘Don’t you worry, Superintendent. Always pleased to help a fellow officer.’

  On the river, the local coastguard, the Thames River Police, and a couple of men who worked at the boat shed where the boat had come from trawled up and down in the vicinity of the area identified as O’Grady’s most likely destination. Each boat used GPS to keep to their path as they crisscrossed an area of five square miles. The tide was on the turn as they moved up and down, ideal for finding something, but another two hours and a stiff breeze from the east would come up, and if anything was floating, then the chances were that it would be lost.

  In the station, Emily Matson followed the correct procedure, informed Ainsley Caxton of his rights, asked everyone to state their name, and in the case of the two police officers their rank. An immediate rebuff came from Sharman, stating on the record that his client was not guilty of any crime. Isaac had briefed Emily beforehand to take the blustering, the rhetoric, in her stride and to keep focussed. She heeded the advice, but she still felt unnerved by a man in a three-piece Savile Row suit, a man who had practised law for as long as she had been alive, a man who knew all the tricks, and a man who was very expensive, more expensive than Caxton could afford, but Frost could.

  Isaac knew that Frost was not protecting Caxton for Caxton’s benefit. He could see that the heat needed to be raised on Frost, and soon. The surveillance of the man was tighter now, and it was known that he was in Greenwich. Isaac and Wendy left the police station and drove the
short distance to the man’s penthouse, the man himself answering the intercom on the door this time.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, Detective Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street, Homicide. We have a few questions for you.’

  ‘I’m not talking to the police without my lawyer being present.’

  ‘An innocent man would let us in, but maybe you’re not. Sharman’s going to be busy for some time with Caxton, no doubt he’ll weasel him out of there, but how about you, Mr Frost?’

  The latch on the door released. ‘Come up, I’ve nothing to hide.’

  Isaac turned to Wendy. ‘He’s feeling vulnerable. O’Grady’s not here, and Caxton’s under pressure. We can break this case yet.’

  ‘Gilbert Lawrence?’

  ‘The pieces are falling into place. Deal with this, then we raise the heat on the others. Ralph’s still not in the clear, neither is his sister. And as for Jill Dundas, a nasty piece of work behind that façade, she will still need further questioning. Once we start solving one case, everyone’s nerves will become ragged.’

  ‘Of course, I’m supporting Caxton. He’s been with me for years,’ Frost said. He was standing at the window of the penthouse, staring out at the river. The weather was looking increasingly wild.

  ‘Hector O’Grady, what can you tell us about him?’

  ‘He’s been with me for three years. A good man, and his not being here is out of character.’

  ‘How did you manage when they were in Belgium?’ Isaac said.

  ‘And when was that, Inspector?’ Frost said. He moved to the other side of the room, sat down on a sofa, beckoned the two police officers to make themselves comfortable. Wendy thought him to be an attractive man, not that it didn’t make him guilty.

  ‘When they killed Samuels. We’ve got the dates, the time that O’Grady phoned you. An error using your number. Arrogance on your part, I suppose, believing that you could thumb your nose at the Belgian police.’