DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You will soon,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve got a contact down there, let’s me see it before it’s been signed off by the Forensics officer.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The clothing and shoes could have been purchased in England, as well as overseas. I’ll work on it tomorrow, contact the importer, find out where the stock had been dispatched.’

  ‘Any more, seeing that you have friends in high places?’ Isaac said, a smile on his face, not that he felt jovial.

  ‘The SIM card in the phone. Vodafone, purchased in a supermarket probably, prepaid.’

  ‘A tourist?’

  ‘We can’t be certain. Plenty of people don’t want to tie themselves to contracts, others have more than one phone.’

  ‘And some toss the phone and the SIM card out after a week.’

  ‘Criminals would, but the man had the latest iPhone,’ Larry said. ‘If he were a criminal, then he would have purchased something cheap.’

  ‘The media?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘A death in Hyde Park, Chinese tourists, no more than a five-minute walk to Kensington Palace. It’s touched the public’s imagination, the fear that the man’s death was not random, and there’s a madman on the loose,’ Larry said.

  ‘Just what we need, public hysteria.’

  ‘Not yet, but it could become that if there are more.’

  ‘It would have needed something for him to have stayed in the water,’ Larry said.

  ‘Have you swum in there?’

  ‘Not likely. Too much dirt and duck poo for me.’

  ‘The dirt’s on the bottom, but it’s cold, freezing cold.’

  ‘You’ve been in?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Not recently. The water comes from three bores in the park; it used to be fed from the River Westbourne, but that’s been diverted underneath and around the lake. If he wasn’t a good swimmer, the cold would have sapped his strength on contact with the water, and then panic sets in, and if it was dark, the man, uncertain of his bearings, strikes out for shore. Confusion, fear, possibly jet-lagged if he’s a tourist, and then death.’

  ‘Sad way to die,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Who was he? We need to know and within twenty-four hours,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Six in the morning meeting?’ Bridget said.

  ‘Until we solve the murder.’

  ‘Jamaica?’

  ‘It’s off for the time being.’

  ‘Someone will be disappointed,’ Wendy said.

  Isaac chose to ignore Wendy’s comment, true as it was. He stood up, put on his jacket and left the office. Tomorrow was another day; he knew that tonight at home was another problem.

  ***

  Torrential rain greeted Isaac as he left his flat at five o’clock the next morning, but it was a welcome relief from the frosty atmosphere inside.

  He knew that he’d have to make it up to Jenny, and as soon as the current murder investigation was over, he’d rebook the flight to Jamaica, even pay extra if necessary.

  One advantage of the rain was that Hyde Park would have fewer tourists, although one or two joggers would be winding their way through, determined that without their early-morning hit they’d never get through the day. However, any remaining evidence at the murder scene would no longer be available. He pitied the two uniforms still at the site.

  In the office, the team were there. Even though they had all been in the office five hours previously, the early-morning meeting was a rule that Isaac rarely broke during an investigation.

  In the small kitchenette, Bridget had prepared tea for everyone, even bringing a homemade cake with her.

  In his office, Isaac, after the customary ‘thanks for coming’, led off. He had a mug of tea in his hand, no sugar, although Larry had two spoons, and Bridget and Wendy had sweeteners, the two of them attempting to lose weight for their upcoming week in the South of France, the hope of finding love or lust, joking mainly about the unlikeliness of either.

  ‘We need to know who this person is,’ Isaac said as he took a sip of tea.

  ‘I’ll focus on the clothing, Inspector Hill can focus on the SIM card,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Also, the iPhone. Bridget’s running it through the system for me, although without it switched on, we’ve not much to go on,’ Larry Hill said.

  ‘Needle in a haystack if it was purchased overseas or on eBay.’

  ‘Worth a shot,’ Isaac said, glancing over at Larry who wasn’t looking the best. He would have to have that talk soon with him.

  ‘The SIM’s a better chance. Although the serial number may not help much. Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard, we can expect his dulcet tones in here soon?’

  ‘Sometime today. The media attention will ensure his becoming involved,’ Isaac said.

  A short meeting, it was still too early to start making phone calls, knocking on doors. Bridget went back to her computer. Larry researched how easy it was to get hold of a SIM card for a mobile; remarkably easy, as it turned out that few checks were conducted.

  Wendy busied herself with checking the suppliers of the clothes and the shoes the dead man had been wearing. She soon realised that there were more than she could ever door knock or phone, and if they were counterfeit, brought from a shady seller down a dark lane and off the back of a truck, then they would be impossible to trace. According to Forensics, the fabric in the shorts the man had been wearing indicated that they were genuine, although they couldn’t be sure with the shirt. The shoes seemed genuine as well.

  The dead man was either a saint or a rogue, or possibly somewhere in between, but no one had reported him missing. Not a concern in itself, as it was only twenty-four hours since he had died. Missing Persons would contact Homicide if anything came in. Bridget had scanned their website, sad to see so many people there with no names, other than John or Jane Doe: washed up on the shore, three months floating around in the sea, dead under a bridge, some in their teens, others old and unwanted. People who had loved or been loved, now forgotten.

  And now one more to add to the list, a man in the Serpentine, but Wendy was sure the day would reveal his identity. After all, he had been carrying a late-model phone, he had been dressed appropriately for jogging, he was not a tramp or a refugee. He must have money and loved ones somewhere. Wendy realised that that was the soft-hearted side of her, the side that looked for the best in people and circumstances. The man could have been a savage killer, an abuser of children, a villain, but until that was known, she would only think the best of the man who was lying on a metal table waiting for the pathologist to conclude his autopsy and to update the team.

  Wendy scrolled down the list of clothing that had been provided by the crime scene investigators.

  Shoes. Nike Air Zoom Pegasus 35 Shield – Black – Size 10.

  Shorts. Nike Challenger – Black – Medium.

  Nike Dri-FIT Medallist – Short-sleeve – Black – Medium.

  All of it one brand, which indicated that a Nike shop or a section in a department store might be able to supply the details, assuming a credit card was used. Cash was unlikely. Who carried cash these days, Wendy thought, although she still preferred money in her wallet, not fully trusting the card to work when she wanted it to, not always sure if there were sufficient funds in the bank account to cover whatever she purchased.

  Larry sat at his desk, realising that the iPhone would not be of much use unless it was powered up. The phone was with Forensics, drying out. No attempt would be made to switch it on until the process had completed.

  ‘You’ll fry what little’s left of it if you try,’ the smart and eager young man in the white lab coat had said when Larry had stuck his nose around the door the night before. Forensics wasn’t too keen on working on a Sunday, the same as everyone else, but for a murder the person on standby duties had been brought in.

  Larry looked at his watch. 7.20 a.m. He’d give it another ten minutes, and he’d be over to Forensics, no doubt making a nuisance of himself, hopeful of a result.
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  Chapter 3

  ‘It’ll cost you a pint,’ Jerry Blaxland said. He had arrived at the Forensics lab at eight in the morning, expecting to have a chance to grab a cup of coffee and check his emails. It wasn’t to be as Larry had arrived ten minutes earlier.

  Blaxland, a man in his forties, with jet-black hair, had a perpetual frown as though the world was about to end. His initial comment, ‘it’ll cost you a pint’, said before the usual courtesies, did not concern Larry. Apart from Blaxland being a good forensics laboratory officer, he was also a drinker, and he and Larry had often shared a few glasses of beer.

  ‘I’ll buy you two if you can get the phone to work,’ Larry said.

  ‘Five minutes while I log in, check a couple of emails and grab a coffee. One for you?’ Blaxland said, not willing to forego the early morning ritual.

  ‘One sugar.’

  ‘Cutting down?’

  ‘I’m trying to, but you know how it is.’

  Blaxland was another man who struggled with his weight, not helped by five pints of beer every night at his local pub, a predilection for McDonald’s hamburgers, the biggest they had, every lunchtime.

  ‘The wife?’ Blaxland said.

  ‘She’s complaining, and I’m waiting for my DCI to have another go at me.’

  ‘Tough.’

  ‘Sometimes we see things that no man should see.’

  ‘Not in here,’ Blaxland said. Larry looked around the laboratory, could see what the man meant. The area was sterile, with hardly anything to show for what passed through the doors: blood-stained clothing, guns and knives, some still bloodied, some that had killed, and sometimes body parts, heavily decayed and writhing with maggots. Yet, each day, the fear of contamination and disputed evidence ensured that the place was left spotless. A faint smell of chemicals pervaded the air.

  ‘We’ve had the phone on low heat for twenty-three hours,’ Blaxland said. ‘If it’s going to work, it’ll be now or never.’

  ‘The memory, any chance of finding out contacts from it, images?’

  ‘Do you remember back in 2016 when the FBI tried to unlock an iPhone belonging to a suspected terrorist and Apple wouldn’t help?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ Larry replied, not sure of the relevance.

  ‘The FBI managed to unlock it in the end. We may have a password on this phone as well.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty. It’s a prepaid card, so if someone stole it and made a long-distance call to a relative in Australia, the money would have run out soon enough. Depends though.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Whether whoever this phone belonged to was neurotic, or he used it to phone a girlfriend while his wife sat at home with the kids.’

  ‘Assume the best. Just switch it on.’

  Blaxland set the phone on one of the benches in the lab. He then connected the charging cable – nothing.

  ‘It’s dead,’ Larry said.

  ‘You’ve got a phone. What happens when the battery goes flat?’

  ‘It switches off.’

  ‘And when you connect it to the charger, it thinks about it for a short while before anything happens. I’m only applying a trickle charge, the lowest setting that I can. It’ll take a few minutes. Time enough for another coffee.’

  ‘I’d rather stay with the phone.’

  ‘A watched kettle never boils. You must have heard that saying?’

  ‘My mother, all the time.’

  ‘Your mother had more sense than you. A coffee and then it’ll be ready to try.’

  The two men retreated to the coffee machine, Larry not keen to go, but complying with Blaxland. The man was good, Larry knew that, and if anyone was going to have success, it would be him.

  Five minutes later, the two men were back at the phone. The screen was illuminated, a charge of eight per cent indicated.

  ‘It’s a bit low, but it’s promising,’ Blaxland said.

  Larry wanted to pick up the phone and scroll through it, find out the phone’s number, instigate a search on the calls made. ‘Can’t you try it now?’ he said.

  ‘It cost the FBI a fortune to break the password on that phone in America,’ Blaxland said.

  ‘The most I can manage is a couple of pints of beer if that’s what you’re hinting at.’

  ‘That’ll do. There’s no password.’

  ‘What’s the phone’s number?’

  Blaxland scrolled through to the settings to show the number. Larry messaged Bridget; she’d know what to do.’

  ‘A list of phone numbers called, received?’

  ‘You’ve got the phone’s number. It’s easy from here on.’

  ‘Humour me. Give me the last ten with times, also any messages. Are there images?’

  ‘No images, two messages. “See you soon, can’t wait”, “Ready and waiting, lover”.’

  ‘Phone numbers for the messages?’

  Blaxland typed the information on his laptop. Not long after, Larry left Forensics with a printed sheet of paper containing the details of the two messages complete with their phone numbers and eight phone numbers dialled, but no emails, as the phone had not been fully set up.

  ***

  Wendy had to admit relief in that the focus had turned from the clothing the dead jogger was wearing to the phone calls, especially the two messages. Of the eight phone numbers dialled, four of them were the same as the messages.

  ‘A wife?’ Isaac said in the office.

  ‘You’ve a trusting nature, DCI,’ Wendy said. ‘The man had a fancy woman, a bit on the side. That’s why the prepaid phone, the coy messages, the short phone calls.’

  Isaac knew that Wendy was probably right.

  He had had a troublesome night, with Jenny wanting to talk for hours on end, and just as he was dropping off to sleep, she’d nudge him in the ribs and start on again about the need for commitment, the time to prioritise what was important in his life.

  She was right, he knew that, but what could he say? There was a murder enquiry. He had had no words, and it had been the first time that she had complained. He hoped it would blow over, but he wasn’t confident that it would.

  She was only exercising her right as the person who shared his life. In the end, she had left the bed and had gone to sleep in the other room. When he had left early in the morning, he had tiptoed past her, not sure if she was asleep or whether she was pretending. He felt sorry, but he couldn’t say that they’d leave for Jamaica as promised, nor could he say that he loved her and all would be well. He had been down this road before, and it was invariably rough before it got to the end. He wished it could be different.

  ‘A mistress,’ Wendy said, this time louder than the first. She had seen the distant look in her DCI’s face, realised what the problem was. Of all those in the department, she had known him longer than anyone else, even longer than Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard. Isaac had been in uniform when she had first met him, a lowly constable attempting to make his mark. Back then, he had been irresistible to the women in the station: over six feet tall, black complexion, always immaculately dressed, even in his police uniform. And now, many years later, the looks had not changed, only aged a little and become more distinguished, and now he wore a suit.

  Isaac, embarrassed that he had drifted away for a few seconds, refocussed on the meeting. ‘Yes, of course. Do we know who?’

  ‘It’s another prepaid,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve found out where it was bought, although not a name.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘Paddington.’

  ‘Wendy, Larry, focus on finding the owner of this phone. Any more you can give us, Bridget?’

  ‘Not so difficult now with the number. I can tell you where the phone calls to and from the jogger were made.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The dates go back six days. The jogger phoned the number four times, the other end phoned him twice, plus a couple of messages.’

  ‘We’ll check where the other phone n
umber’s SIM was purchased, and then it’s legwork,’ Larry said. ‘Any more you can give us, Bridget?’

  ‘The other mobile’s relatively static. I’ve got the SIM provider checking further, but we’re assuming Paddington, and we should be able to narrow it down to two to three streets, maybe a bit more.’

  ‘That’s still a lot of territory to cover. We’ll be looking forever. Any other phone calls made from the other number?’

  ‘Only to the jogger, which indicates that Wendy is right. Clandestine lovers indulging in subterfuge.’

  ‘It got the man killed,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It’s a good enough motive.’

  ***

  ‘Do you know how many SIMS we sell in a day?’ Brent Anderson said. He was standing behind a shop counter at Paddington Station. In front of him, a glass-fronted kiosk had an array of cheap mobile phones. Behind him, hanging on hooks, SIM cards for all of the major mobile phone networks.

  ‘The phones you’re selling? Fakes or stolen?’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ve got receipts for all of them. This is a respectable business.’

  ‘Respectable, I don’t think so,’ Wendy said. She didn’t like the look of the man. He had a great location in the railway station, a lot of passing traffic, yet he stood there with unkempt hair, a one-week beard growth.

  ‘If I have to close you down, get your stock checked out, I will,’ Larry said.

  Anderson looked away, took a puff of a cigarette.

  ‘No smoking in here,’ Wendy said. ‘Can’t you see the signs.’

  ‘Is this your store, or are you just an employee?’ Larry asked.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘We came here in a civil manner, showed you our warrant cards. If you don’t want to help, then we’ll call in some people from the station to close you down, check your records.’

  Wendy had got to know the previous station master well during another murder enquiry. She knew what he would have thought of the man selling phones. The station master had been a stickler for rules and regulations and for keeping the trains on time, the station modern and efficient. Although in his office it was like stepping back in time, the leather chair where Wendy had sat recovered from a carriage on the last steam train to leave Paddington. Now the trains were slick and fast and clean, Wendy was not nostalgic for their smelly and slow predecessors. She imagined that Anderson would have liked them. Back then everyone smoked, and there were no restrictions.