DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Twenty-eight minutes. A lawyer’s attention to detail and I documented all that happened and what he said. At the time, I thought nothing to it. I was used to him, and I’ve met more than my fair share of deluded fools, drunks, and ne’er-do-wells, the same as you have.’

  ‘Yet you called me,’ Isaac said.

  ‘He said that he had been in London and he had seen the dead man jogging alongside the Serpentine, and that…’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘He clammed up, said no more. After that, he got up from the chair and walked out of the house. He never said goodbye. He closed the front door gently, not banging it as he was apt to do after we had had an argument.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that he could have killed Colin Young?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. It was him probably sounding off, a touch of bravado, an attempt to frighten me, to get his revenge.’

  ‘If he killed the man, then he could come for you and Christine,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I can’t see it, but it’s a possibility, especially if he’s had a few drinks. I’m not certain if he’s mentally stable, either. According to you and your team, his business is shaky, the woman he’s with is on the rough side. Embittered men commit terrible crimes.’

  ‘Have you told your sister what you’ve just told me?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘We’ll get the police up in Liverpool to check on his movements, and it may be a good idea if you move out of your house. For a few days, that is.’

  ‘I have enough money. I’ll pay for twenty-four-hour security for the house and for me. It’s not the first time that I’ve been threatened, occupational hazard if you’ve been a prosecuting lawyer.’

  ‘Or a police officer,’ Isaac said. ‘Your sister?’

  ‘She can come and stay here if she wants.’

  ‘If she doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ll ensure that her house is watched. She’s my sister, and she drives me crazy, but blood is thicker than water.’

  Isaac hoped that the reference to blood was metaphorical and that Homicide would not see any more in the current murder enquiry.

  ***

  The consensus in Homicide was that the special clients of Colin Young/Barry Montgomery were not going to be found easily. The first location where the dead man had met with one of the ‘specials’, a cottage in the countryside, picturesque and available through Airbnb, had had a succession of different people occupying it, mostly couples looking for a romantic weekend, a wedding night, or just a break from the hustle and bustle of the city.

  Bridget had found the owners, a professional couple who lived in Brighton, a city about seventy miles south of London. A favourite holiday destination on the coast in the past, but now, with discount airlines and trips to Europe and further afield affordable and in the reach of most people, some of its lustre had been lost. The Prince Regent built the Royal Pavilion there in the late eighteenth century, finally completing it in 1823. The prince, later to become George IV, maintained the building, designed in the Indo-Saracenic style, as a discreet location for his liaisons with his long-time companion, Maria Fitzherbert, later marrying her in secret.

  Wendy and Larry drove past it to their meeting with the Goldworths, the owners of the thatched cottage, a building whose style had appealed to Wendy: homely, inviting, loved.

  ‘We can’t help you,’ Brent Goldworth said. He and his wife were sitting in the alcove of the bay window in their third-floor flat on Brighton’s promenade, overlooking the sea.

  ‘My husband’s correct. We go up there every couple of weeks to check everything’s in order, though we don’t clean the place. We pay an agency to do that and to ensure it’s ready for whoever’s coming. If it’s newly-weds, we ensure that there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge, flower petals on the bed, but that’s all. Credit card payment or PayPal, and there’s a key around the back, hidden, a password to open where it is.’

  ‘The agency?’

  ‘A couple in the area. They’ve made a good business looking after rentals for absent landlords. Not that we’re really absent, but we prefer to keep hands-off. If we’re up there, Brent’s fussing over what needs to be fixed up, a scratch on the wall, the television’s getting old. As for me, I’m checking under the bed, in the cupboards, worrying as to who’s been there, what they’ve been up to. We lived in it for a long time, until Brent was transferred down here, a company promotion. We should have sold the cottage, but it holds fond memories, and we’d prefer to leave it shut up, but that serves no purpose. Life’s expensive enough as it is, and every little helps.’

  Larry assumed that the Goldworths did not bother to tell Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs about their additional income. The short-term letting of property had become a lucrative black-market activity, and cities across the world were trying to crack down, ostensibly to maintain standards, although he knew, as did everyone else, that it was all to do with money. The hotels couldn’t compete, their occupancy rates were down, and they weren’t paying as much in taxes as they had before.

  ‘We gave Bridget Halloran all that she requested,’ Brent Goldworth said.

  ‘Unfortunately, it didn’t help. As you said, a credit card.’

  ‘A name on it?’

  ‘The murdered man had paid for it; no doubt whoever he met paid him back.’

  ‘It’s disturbing to think that someone who died had been in our cottage,’ Emilia Goldworth said.

  ‘And for the purposes of prostitution,’ Wendy added.

  ‘That’s worse. We’ve considered selling the cottage after what has happened. Do you have any problem with that?’

  ‘That’s up to you. It’s some time since the man was there with his lover. The crime scene investigators won’t find anything, and we’ve not asked them to look. Besides, we’re not sure what we’re looking for. The place will be full of fingerprints, needle in a haystack to find Colin Young’s, let alone who he was with.’

  ‘You could try the agency we use.’

  Larry and Wendy visited the agency on the way back to London.

  ‘We don’t make a habit of welcoming the visitors. Sometimes we’ll go around if there’s a problem, but that’s rare, and we can’t recollect a couple of men there. Are you sure about them? The Goldworths are a bit sensitive about that sort of thing,’ a friendly red-faced man said. For someone who made a living looking after other peoples’ properties, he didn’t look particularly fit.

  ‘Two men, that’s it,’ Wendy said.

  ‘We can’t help you, sorry.’

  There was no need to visit the hotel in Windsor again. Mrs Winterly had provided the information that Colin Young had been there for her, and the date when he had been in the hotel with the ‘special’ coincided with a week when she had gone to see a friend in Cornwall.

  Chapter 28

  It was Larry who found Terry Hislop at a pub in Paddington. It wasn’t one of the trendy pubs that serve gourmet food, boutique beer, or even a cup of coffee. It was a serious drinking man’s pub, the place that the affluent kept well clear of.

  ‘Made a fool of yourself,’ Larry said as he sidled up alongside the man sitting on a bar stool, leaning on the bar, steadying himself to focus.

  Hislop looked Larry’s way, unable to make the connection.

  ‘Inspector Larry Hill, Homicide.’

  ‘I’ve killed no one,’ Hislop said, still struggling to focus. It was as Gwen Hislop had told Isaac: Terry Hislop wasn’t a drinker, even if he wanted to be.

  ‘We met in Liverpool. I came up with Sergeant Wendy Gladstone.’

  ‘I remember her well enough. She came to my office.’

  ‘That’s it. You were polite then, and then the two of us met you in the local police station. Coming back to you now?’

  ‘Gwen threw me out of her house.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve been divorced from her for a long time.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  Larry looked over at the barman. ‘N
o more drinks for him,’ pointing at Hislop.

  ‘Who are you to tell me who to serve or not? His money’s as good as anyone else, and he’s not drunk.’

  Larry withdrew his warrant card from his inside jacket pocket and flashed it in the direction of the barman. ‘As I said, no more drinks.’

  ‘It’s hard enough to make a living without you telling me what to do.’

  ‘Don’t give me any more of your lip. Once I’ve finished having a chat with this man, then he’s yours to fleece.’

  ‘As you say.’

  Larry ignored the barman, not even asking if he was the licensee of the pub, although he probably was. It was an unattractive building with a dated interior, white tiles halfway up the walls, tiles on the floor as well. The pubs that were doing good business had diversified, gone upmarket.

  ‘Now here’s the deal, Hislop,’ Larry said. ‘We can have a nice little chat here, or you can be hauled down to Challis Street Police Station. What’s it to be?’

  ‘Can’t a man have a quiet drink?’

  ‘Not if they go around to their ex-wife’s house and threaten her and her sister.’

  ‘I didn’t threaten. Maybe I had had a few drinks and said a few words I shouldn’t have, but that’s all. Gwen and me, we go back a long way. She was keen on me in the early days. She’s still keen, I could tell.’

  ‘Do you seriously believe that, or is it the beer talking?’

  ‘I know my women.’

  ‘Gwen Hislop is an educated woman, so is her sister. When you were all younger, and you carried less weight, then they may have seen something in you, but now? I don’t think so. I’m told you’re going around with a slapper up in Liverpool.’

  ‘How dare you talk about Cynthia like that. I’ll grant you that she doesn’t look the best, but she doesn’t complain about my drinking, and she doesn’t accuse me of murder.’

  Larry knew that character assassination and belittling the man’s current girlfriend were wrong, but he needed a reaction, and once Hislop was sober, he would start to think before he spoke.

  None of the Homicide team believed that he was the murderer, but he had made statements that indicated that he knew the story. Even that wasn’t conclusive, as anyone with access to the internet, or a newspaper, could have learnt as much as he had; but most people nowadays neither had the time nor the interest to follow what was an increasingly stale crime.

  ‘We’ve not accused you of murder, yet. Either you tell me why you were at Gwen’s and why you cast certain aspersions, or I’ll haul you in. Now, what’s it to be?’

  Larry looked over at the barman. ‘Two pints of your best.’

  ‘About time too. We’re not a social club.’

  Larry couldn’t blame the man for his attitude. He would be barely covering costs, and possibly even making a loss each week; once, the pub’s licence would have been worth a lot of money, now it was probably worth a lot less than when the man had paid for it. He was cursed financially whatever decisions he made.

  Hislop downed half the contents of his glass before Larry had had a chance to take his first sip. If this is the pub’s best, Larry thought, then he was glad he hadn’t ordered the worst.

  ‘You visited Gwen on two occasions.’

  ‘Twice, that’s it. She was really friendly the first time,’ Hislop replied.

  ‘Don’t give me any nonsense about how your boyish charm won her over, and that she was yours. Hislop, you’re a pathetic man who keeps getting himself into trouble. How about this business of yours? Strictly legal, no dodgy resprays, filing off the engine numbers?’

  ‘What are you talking about? You know that doesn’t happen anymore, too many rules and regulations. Nowadays, I change body parts, that’s all. I was a craftsman when I first started out, made a good living. Gwen knows that.’

  ‘And Cynthia?’

  ‘My business, as with my women, has gone downhill. Gwen and her sister are classy women, and once both of them were putty in my hands. Christine’s putting it about from what I’ve heard, and maybe I should give her a call, no harm in that.’

  ‘If you don’t want to spend a night in the cells, then I suggest you keep well clear.’

  ‘A threat?’

  ‘A fact. You visited Gwen the first time, nothing happened. I’ll accept that.’

  ‘Nothing happened the second time, either. If Gwen’s told you differently, then she’s lying.’

  ‘I’m not saying she has. What’s your story?’

  Hislop had an issue with alcohol, a love-hate relationship, as did Larry. And Hislop had intellectual limitations. It was not as though the man was stupid, the same as for Larry: an inspector who wanted to be more, but he had come to realise that even if he devoted the time necessary, he just couldn’t summon the intellectual stamina required to push his career on.

  ‘Okay, I went around to her house. I wasn’t planning to, but I’d had a few, and you know how it is?’

  ‘Not really, but carry on. Why are you in London? A special trip to meet up with the sisters?’

  ‘I’ll admit to that. With you and your sergeant reopening old wounds, asking questions, it got me to thinking. Gwen’s still on her own, and I am, more or less.’

  ‘Cynthia?’

  ‘It’s casual. No doubt she’d like to take it to the next level, move in with me, but she won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Where do you think I live?’

  ‘Over the business.’

  ‘It’s not a home, is it? I had a place, but I couldn’t keep up the payments. It wasn’t much better, but at least it had a bathroom. All I’ve got now is a hose downstairs and a toilet in the back of the workshop. Hardly the sort of place for two people.’

  ‘Would she mind?’

  ‘Probably not. She’s got a place, a one-bedroom flat courtesy of the council, but they’d get funny if I moved in there.’

  ‘Would they find out?’

  ‘Who knows? There are always nosey neighbours.’

  ‘And you keep using it as an excuse.’

  ‘I’ve still got some money, and I thought Gwen might have been responsive. After all, we did have something, and we’re both getting on a bit. If she had had me back, then I would have played it fair and square.’

  ‘You’d have still been after Christine.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘I can’t believe you. That’s not the point, though, is it? You’re with Gwen in her house; she’s not enamoured of your drunken attempts at seduction. She’s telling you to leave, you’re getting angry.’

  ‘She’s an educated woman, spends too much time defending someone or other. I’m trying to reason with her, but she’s not biting. She starts using words I can barely understand, making out that I’m stupid.’

  ‘Did she? Or are you making this up to justify what you said about Christine and the dead man?’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Your final words were, and I’m quoting from what Gwen said, and DCI Cook recorded, “He said that he had been in London and he had seen the dead man jogging alongside the Serpentine, and that…”.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You left the house.’

  ‘I deny it.’

  ‘Deny all you want. I’ll take Gwen’s account of what was said over yours any day.’

  ‘I’ll admit that I knew Christine was working in that hotel, and that Gwen was a hotshot lawyer.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve got a laptop and the internet. You can find anyone if you look hard enough. Gwen was easy enough to find, and there were court transcripts, a photo of her, and Christine’s into Facebook, photos of her with the children, her husband, a dog.’

  Larry felt that the man’s answer was plausible. He had reconnected with some friends from school using Facebook, met with a couple of them: one had become an actor, the other, a schoolteacher. After an hour of talking to each of them, it was evident that time had moved on and the child was not the man, and h
e had little in common with either of them.

  But Terry Hislop still believed in the possibility of a connection with his former wife.

  ‘I’ll buy into how you knew about Gwen and Christine. It still doesn’t explain why you said you saw the dead man jogging.’

  ‘It does. The internet, updates on the news. You interviewed two joggers, they told you they had seen someone, and then after he had been identified, his name, his story.’

  ‘Not on the front page of the newspapers.’

  ‘What does that matter? I set an alert for any information relating to the murder, no matter how obscure. You can find anything on the internet, you know that?’

  Larry had to concede that Bridget could. It was possible that, given time, Terry Hislop could as well.

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘I’m going back to Liverpool.’

  ‘Cynthia?’

  ‘Any port in a storm.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go. If you go near Gwen or Christine, they’ll be trouble for you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Christine could have still killed him, you know that?’

  ‘Amateur detective, are you?’

  ‘Statistically, the murderer is often the nearest and dearest, a family member. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘The internet?’

  ‘That’s what I read.’

  ‘You may be right, but Christine Mason is not high on our list of potential suspects. However, you are. Hislop, I suggest you leave London tonight. In fact, I’ll put you on the train myself.’

  ‘Up to you.’

  Larry finished his drink and took hold of Hislop’s arm. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Next door, a budget hotel. It’s not much to look at, but it’s clean.’

  ‘With a shower?’

  ‘And a bath. Luxury after what I’ve had to put up with for the last few months.’

  Sixty-five minutes later, Terry Hislop boarded his train. Larry hoped it was the last that he saw of him. He had not killed Colin Young/Barry Montgomery, that much was known, as his movements could be accounted for in Liverpool at the time and date when the man had met his fate in that cold lake early in the morning.