The envelope was placed on his workbench. ‘I’ll need to check it before we open it,’ he said.
‘I’ll take the responsibility,’ Isaac said. ‘We need to know the contents.’
‘On your head, DCI. There could be fingerprints.’
‘They’ll be there after you’ve removed what’s inside.’
For now, the contents were all-important.
The letter was laid out on the bench. On it an address.
‘What does it mean?’ Isaac asked.
‘We’ll check it out,’ Larry said. ‘This is too sophisticated for drug smuggling.’
Isaac hoped it wasn’t anything to do with the secret service; he’d dealt with them before, and they played dirty. On a previous case, one of the deaths had been an assassination, and he had slept with one of their operatives, only for her to disappear when he started asking questions, then phoning him a year later, wanting to take up where they had left off. He had declined the offer, much as he had liked her initially: too much baggage, too much unknown, too dangerous.
***
Isaac hadn’t gained much from Hector Robinson, other than he was a surly individual who didn’t like the police. Apart from a run-in with the law in his twenties for stealing a car, and later convictions for various offences, he had kept out of prison, something his son hadn’t. His defence for taking the car had been that he was drunk, the keys were in the ignition, and he had thought it was his.
The judge accepted his version of the truth, as the cars were similar. The arresting officer’s view when he gave evidence was that the man hadn’t been all that drunk, just tipsy, and that his car was in the garage at home, and it was a different make, only the colour was the same.
It had been put forward by the prosecution that the Robinsons lived a hand-to-mouth existence. With the arrival of a child in the house, Jim, Gladys Robinson wasn’t working, and Hector, the sole breadwinner, was labouring, and had been unable to explain how he could afford a two-year-old four-door saloon car in good condition – his story of a win on the horses wasn’t believed.
Robinson had walked free, jumped into his car parked down a side street not far from the court, seen the parking ticket, cursed loudly, and headed off to the pub to celebrate.
Six pints later, as he drove home, a breathalyser, and his driving licence cancelled for one year.
The story had been told to Isaac by Bill Ross, the inspector at Canning Town. How he came to know about it, Isaac didn’t know, but then, that was Ross’s style, a man who knew the street as well as Larry Hill.
It was Ross on the phone. ‘You better get over here,’ he said. ‘It’s Hector Robinson; he’s dead.’
Isaac had been preparing to join Larry and an armed response team on their visit to the address found in the box.
In Canning Town, two blocks from where Isaac had met Robinson in the pub, a body was slumped up against the old wooden gate of a derelict factory.
‘No one took any notice,’ Ross said. The two police officers hadn’t met for over a year, not since Isaac had married Jenny, and the man had changed. Before, strapping with a bright red complexion, a cheery disposition, a beer gut. Isaac did not comment on the man he met: bags under his bloodshot eyes, and the belly, once so prominent, replaced by empty space. Bill Ross looked ill to him.
‘They would have thought he was homeless.’ Isaac said.
‘Or drunk. Your pub has plenty of them of a night.’
It wasn’t his pub, but Isaac said nothing in response.
‘Staffing levels, that’s why we don’t get down here as much as we should. Up in the town, the hoodies are stealing whatever they can, uneducated most of them, condemned to the street, and then there are the fundamentalists who control half of Canning, and if a woman walks through with bare flesh exposed she gets verbal abuse, a cane around the legs.’
‘Not your cup of tea?’
‘Nor yours.’
‘We don’t have the problem,’ Isaac said. He didn’t want to get into a political or religious debate with Bill Ross, a no-win situation. He was more interested in the slumped body of the man he had met the previous day.
‘What’s the situation?’ Isaac said.
The area around the gate smelled of urine, the patrons at the pub unable to wait for somewhere better or not caring either way; the latter the more likely.
‘If anyone saw him last night or this morning, no one contacted us. Not that we’d expect them to. Mind your own business is the best policy; I’d adopt it myself if I lived here. Thankful that I don’t, a three-bedroom house ten miles away. No idea why I don’t get a transfer.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘A routine drive through the area by a patrol car, to check the pub and any lingerers. Robinson’s not the first body down here, and there’s often fights, a knife used more often than not.
‘Anyway, they were down here at nine this morning, the safest time of the day. The drunks are sleeping it off; the fundamentalists, hooligans from what I can see, are at prayer or whatever they do.’
Bill Ross was prejudiced, Isaac had known that for a long time. It wasn’t a healthy attitude for a police officer to openly display.
‘Time of death?’
‘According to the publican, he reckoned that Robinson left the pub fifteen minutes after you; before the heavy drinkers arrived and started causing chaos.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Knife, none too subtle. The upper arm, lower torso, close to the heart, and his throat’s been cut. I’d say the throat was cut after death, but I can’t be sure. The CSIs will know better than me, and the pathologist will give you an A to Z, words you would barely understand.’
‘It’s your case, not mine. Motive?’
‘He had a place not far away, a dive, cheap even for around here.’
‘Bill, I need to know facts, not an opinion of the man’s living arrangements.’
‘It could be random, but it was early in the night. The worst of them wait for later before venturing out.’
‘My visit?’
‘It’s the angle I would take, the most logical. I’ll need an update from you.’
‘I’ll send you a report. That’ll show you what we’re investigating.’
‘Something to go on. It could have been you instead of Robinson if I hadn’t got a car down there to look after you.’
Isaac shuddered; Ross was right. If Robinson’s death was tied in to his daughter and the Jane Doe, which looked increasingly likely, then those who were killing weren’t the sort of people to draw the line at a police officer.
‘Robinson’s daughter was murdered, not sure why, although she was operating out of a bedsit,’ Isaac said.
‘Prostitute?’
‘Correct.’
‘Most of them around here are from the Caribbean, others from China or Vietnam, a few Thais.’
‘Voluntary?’
‘Those from the Caribbean are, not sure about the others. We do what we can; send a few back to where they came from, but they reappear with increasing regularity. One woman’s been deported two times but ends up back in one brothel or another. It’s hard to imagine why.’
Isaac thought the man should get out and about, see the rest of the world; come to realise that Canning Town was better than where the women had lived before, and they had been fed the dream, seen the movies, believed it was milk and honey, not sour and definitely not sweet.
‘Janice Robinson is murdered, but there’s a twist to the case, not sure what it all means yet.’
‘You’ll figure it out.’
‘Janice’s brother, before her death, witnessed a murder or nearly did. He briefly saw the murderer, as did his girlfriend.’
‘Related?’
‘It appears to be. But the Robinsons are not major players, nothing really.’
‘Not sorely missed.’
‘They’ve not made their mark.’
‘Sometimes, people die due to association, never k
nowing the reason.’
‘That’s why we think it might be professional.’
‘Whoever killed Hector Robinson wasn’t.’
‘Or doesn’t want it to look as if it was.’
‘Leave Robinson to us. I’ll keep you updated and don’t start driving down any back streets, not around here, and don’t go visiting pubs, nor start asking questions.’
‘Bill, it’s all yours; you’re welcome to it,’ Isaac said.
***
Larry was waiting at Challis Street for Isaac to return; the address found in the box was under surveillance.
The armed response team thought it was an overreaction from Homicide, but they were ready to play their part, and they knew DCI Cook from other investigations.
The raid was to go ahead, although delayed by twenty-five minutes as Isaac had an onerous duty to perform first. Wendy removed Brad Robinson from school and took him to Compton Road.
At the house, on Isaac’s arrival, Gladys Robinson, Brad and Rose.
Isaac looked over at Wendy on seeing the young Winston; Wendy lifting her eyes to indicate that the two couldn’t be separated.
‘Ask Rose’s mother to come over here,’ Isaac said.
‘What is it, Chief Inspector?’ Brad asked.
‘I’m afraid your father has died.’
‘He died a long time ago when he left us,’ Gladys said.
The reaction of the mother wasn’t unexpected. Rose went and put her arms around Brad’s mother.
‘That’s alright, dear. Nothing lost, not to us.’
‘How?’ Brad asked.
‘He was killed in Canning Town. We don’t know who or why.’
‘Was he living there?’
‘I met with him yesterday. Jim had known about Canning Town.’
‘Is this to do with the woman in the cemetery?’ Rose asked.
‘We have no proof, no reason to think it should be. Canning Town has a bad reputation. It could have just been a gang after his phone or his wallet.’
Isaac had wanted to discount the more obscure theories, but events were moving fast. And if they killed a woman selling herself, a father doing it tough, then no one was safe, not even the young Rose or her boyfriend, not even their parents, not even the police.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Isaac said as he stood up. ‘Wendy, stay here, phone Inspector Bill Ross, arrange for Mrs Robinson to identify her husband.’
‘I’ll not do it, not after what he did to Janice.’
Paranoia on the woman’s part, Isaac was sure.
‘Very well. Wendy, get the details from Bridget, contact Maidstone Prison. Jim can do the necessary.’
‘I can do it,’ Brad said.
‘I’m sure you could,’ Wendy said, ‘but you were only young when he left. It would be better if your brother identified him.’
‘I still want to see my father.’
‘That can be arranged,’ Isaac said before he left in a hurry. He should have stayed longer, but time was of the essence, and those entering the mysterious house were ready and waiting.
***
Wendy would stay with the Robinsons, smooth the inevitable from the Winstons, ensure that security was upgraded for both families – safe houses if Chief Superintendent Goddard would approve, which he probably wouldn’t, not yet.
Isaac looked over at the imposing house hidden behind a high wall, the best part of Holland Park. Whoever they were, they had money and good taste. A police helicopter had flown over the building at sufficient height not to raise suspicion, low enough to suss out the detail. Larry remarked after he had seen the images that Google Streetview would have revealed as much for less cost. However, it wouldn’t have shown two vehicles at the rear of the property; one of them a Bentley, the other a white people carrier, suitable for twelve.
The armed response team waited, poised to act, binoculars trained on the windows of the house. Isaac preferred a softly-softly approach, a knock at the door, await a response.
The inspector in charge of armed response wasn’t so keen on the idea, but he had to concede. After all, it was Homicide’s show, not that they could tell him much about why they were there; some conspiracy, things that go bump in the night, three deaths, apparently unconnected but probably were.
On the hour, watches synchronised, one of the armed response team, bullet-proof jacket fastened, helmet on, opened the garden gate. Even though it was locked, he had seen an exit button on the other side, four feet in. An extended rod that he carried soon dealt with it.
Inside, the armed men fanned out, some taking crouching positions, others standing behind trees. In the house, nothing changed. A light upstairs, a flickering shadow.
The front door was reached, the bell rung, an anxious pause. The bell in the house would be allowed to sound twice before the team would knock the door aside.
It wasn’t standard procedure, not when there had been no proof of weapons inside the house or criminal activity, but Homicide had used influence to get their compliance.
A sound in the house, the door opening, a petite Asian woman in her twenties.
‘All clear,’ from the armed response team.
Isaac walked up to the front door, showed his warrant card to the woman who opened the door fully. ‘Follow me,’ she said.
Alarm bells rang in Isaac’s mind, although so far nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Larry slipped past armed response who were maintaining a standby position, their weapons at their sides.
Isaac followed the woman, saw Larry looking around and into the rooms on each side of the hallway, a winding staircase heading up, the sound of music.
At the rear of the house, a man sat looking out at the garden.
‘Chief Inspector Isaac Cook,’ Isaac said.
The man was tall and slim. In his late forties or early fifties, he had an air of breeding. ‘Ian Naughton,’ he said, his accent English, as he shook Isaac’s hand vigorously. ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘We’re surprised to find you at home,’ Isaac said.
‘A man’s home is his castle, haven’t you heard? That’s a mess you made outside. I hope the police force has the funds to clean it up.’
Isaac doubted if they did, but that wasn’t the point. No adverse reaction from Naughton.
The man was smooth, but that was what Larry had been told in Godstone. Isaac was sure the two men were one and the same.
‘Your colleague may as well come in here. If it’s a guided tour you want, I’d be happy to oblige.’
‘A few questions answered would be preferable.’
The young lady at the door came in with Larry. He received the same cordial welcome, asked to sit down, have a drink.
‘Analyn, our housemaid, looks after the children,’ Naughton said as Isaac watched the woman walk out of the door. ‘Legal. I have all the papers.’
One of the questions Isaac would have wanted to ask, but would not at the present time, was whether Analyn had the papers or Naughton did and if the woman was free to leave if she wanted to.
‘We found your address in a box buried in a cemetery in Kensal Green,’ Larry said. ‘Does that come as a surprise?’
‘Why would someone do that? It makes no sense to me.’
It did to Isaac; he’d met men similar to Naughton before, men who maintained a distance, financing crime, creaming the profits off the top, never sullying themselves with the sordid details.
‘Three deaths so far; all interconnected, all pointing to this house,’ Isaac said.
‘I don’t see how. It’s only my wife and myself. The children are not here at present, on holidays.’
‘Analyn?’
‘She’s been with us for over a year. Comes and goes as she pleases.’
‘Mr Naughton, we can’t ignore the address in the box,’ Isaac said.
‘I’m afraid you must. As you can see, there is nothing of interest here, just myself and Analyn in the house at present.’
‘Y
our wife?’
‘Tomorrow. A trip to Paris with friends, Eurostar. You should try it if you haven’t already.’
‘We checked the house before we came here, never found a mention of your name.’
‘You won’t. My business and personal interests are structured on advice from my financial advisor and my legal team. Now, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate it if you leave.’
‘What is your occupation, Mr Naughton?’ Isaac asked. ‘Where does the money come from to afford this house?’
‘Independent means. And next time you intend to make an unscheduled visit, don’t.’
‘We weren’t sure you were here.’
‘And that, Chief Inspector, is a lie. That address you found, not that I can explain it any more than you can, caused you to believe that this house was a den of iniquity, a house of low repute, a drug baron’s hideout. Am I correct?’
Isaac saw no reason to lie, not to a master criminal; that was indeed what he thought the man was. ‘It was either drugs or women destined for brothels.’
‘Instead of a family home.’
‘As you say,’ Isaac said as he and Larry retreated from the house. The enthusiastic handshake on arrival was not repeated on their departure.
Chapter 12
Bill Ross phoned Isaac two days later, told him to get over to Canning Town Police Station.
Larry went with Isaac. The last resort police station, he had heard it referred to, where the least ambitious, the most ruthless and politically-incorrect police officers wound up. To him, it was his sort of place; a place where true policing could be done, instead of the fussing and fretting, the constant concerns over his drinking and his bad habits.
Bill Ross, Larry could see, had maintained some dignity, but the duty sergeant when he and Isaac entered the hallowed sanctum of the station had taken one look at them, looked at their warrant cards, looked down at DCI Isaac Cook. ‘I’ve heard of you,’ he said, not recognising Isaac’s seniority, only seeing his colour.
Racism, religious bigotry and poor education weren’t only out on the street; they were alive and well in the police station.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 131