Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  “Okay team, let’s get cracking with this. Any new CCTV footage?”

  “Sorry, Guv. I’ve drawn a blank there. We had residential CCTV coverage, and I’ve been through all of it.”

  Mike had only just returned from having a chat with two other members of staff at Hove library. He reiterated Abby’s summary of Janet’s character. He’d picked up on nothing that warranted further investigation.

  Enquiries had been made at the university. Bright, personable and friendly were used to describe Janet by her colleagues. Her research work brought her into little human contact. Other members of staff confirmed that there had been no disagreements, or anything out of the ordinary.

  “As a team, I want you to trawl through Samuel Ashman’s past newspaper, magazine and online articles. I’ve already made a start on it. From what I can gather, he operated on the coalface, and got into some hair-raising situations. Any of those could be cause for concern. I believe he’s also got a blog that he’s neglected, but worth investigating further. Dig deep and see what we can uncover.”

  “Other than Janet’s affair, there didn’t appear to be much else in her life that could endanger her. Everyone we’ve spoken to so far has had good things to say about her.”

  “Abby, I agree. That’s why Matthew Ainscough is still a suspect. He’s the only aspect of her life that could have created any conflict. Don’t forget she ended their relationship when Ainscough wanted more. That gives Ainscough a motive, and jealousy as the jilted lover.”

  The team broke up to carry on with their various lines of enquiry.

  “Abby, a quick word.”

  Abby followed Scott into his office and sat herself down. “I’ve just missed a call from the senior librarian, so I will pop back there in a minute.”

  “Good stuff,” Scott said as he fired up his computer. “After you’ve done that, can you do me a favour, and visit Ashman in hospital? Perhaps you may get him to open up. I’ve asked Raj to dig up more information on Irish Mick.” Scott shouted through to the main floor, asking Raj to come. “It may be nothing, but he seems to be the main character on Ashman’s radar.”

  “Irish Mick is the last person you want to cross.”

  Scott agreed.

  Raj knocked on the door before entering. “Guv?”

  “What have you found on Irish Mick?”

  Raj straightened up as he flicked through his notepad. “A local crime lord who claims to have gone legit. He has interests in construction, casinos, importation of goods and a generous overseas property portfolio covering Spain, Barbados, Greece and Belgium. His interests in Belgium had attracted significant interest from Interpol as the country is a major exchange point on the trafficking routes for drugs and humans.”

  “Convictions?”

  “Importation of drugs twenty years ago, Guv. He did six years. The police could never pin anything else on him. He has a network of shell companies overseas and an army of lawyers who’ve kept him out of trouble. Any convictions since then have been of junior members of his organisation. There was talk of some officers in the Met on his payroll. But nothing concrete.”

  “That would explain why he’s one step ahead of the chasing pack.”

  Raj agreed. He’d found numerous constabularies, HRMC and the Home Office had all been humiliated by their inability to pin him down.

  The police had bugged his phones and followed him many years ago to Puerto Banus on the Spanish Costas. Irish Mick had covered his tracks by holding his meetings on yachts once they’d left the marina. The phones that his organisation favoured used double encryption software which cost one thousand sixteen hundred pounds per phone. Not even the brightest forensic technical specialists across multiple forces could crack the software or find a back door.

  Raj discovered that despite catching accomplices with their phones, when asked to put in their pin codes, they would punch in any sequence of incorrect numbers which would wipe the phones clean, leaving them worthless.

  “Okay, Raj, thanks. I think I need to pay Irish Mick a visit.”

  Raj looked astonished and concerned. “Alone, Guv?”

  “Yep. It will be fine.”

  15

  The last few visitors were shutting down their laptops and reading the last few paragraphs of the papers and books they were reviewing. Angula Baskara paced up and down the isles placing the last few remaining books in their rightful places. Precious books strewn about the library was a pet hate of hers. Why can’t readers put the books back where they found them?

  Abby watched for a moment before approaching. Angula had a forceful and determined approach to her work. The books were thrust back into the shelves as she pushed the book trolley at pace around the corners.

  “Angula.”

  The woman spun on her heels and halted the trolley. “Oh, thanks so much getting back to me. A simple phone call would have been sufficient, Detective Sergeant Trent. You didn’t need to come back.”

  Abby waved off the woman’s concern. “It’s no bother at all. How can I help?”

  The woman led them back to her office and offered Abby a seat. “I’m afraid I haven’t got long. I will need to close the library soon. To be honest, I’m still in shock about Janet’s death. Everyone is.”

  “I can imagine. Such tragic news often takes a while to sink in. As I said earlier, the offer stands should you or your colleagues need to talk through what you’re experiencing.”

  Angula smiled at the offer. “I feel a little embarrassed mentioning this since it slipped my mind. It probably isn’t anything, but something happened about three months ago.”

  “That’s fine. You’d be surprised how sometimes the smallest piece of information can make such a difference to the cases we investigate.”

  Her dark brown almond-shaped eyes stared at Abby. “Going back about three months, we noticed a man loitering across the road frequently. He would just stare at the library for perhaps twenty or thirty minutes at a time before wandering off. I found it odd.”

  Abby took out her notepad. “Directly opposite?”

  “Most of the time, yes. He would lean against the wall between the two shops opposite, or on the corner of the road. It was the same man.”

  “How often was he there?”

  Angula thought for a moment. “I think it happened over a space of about three weeks. I guess he turned up two or three times a week during the first two weeks. After that point, I noticed him there every day for about five days on the trot. As you know it’s not uncommon just to see people loitering about on the streets, especially the homeless.”

  “And would you say he looked homeless?”

  “I doubt it. He was dressed casually and didn’t look as if he slept rough.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “It’s hard, because he wore a black hoodie I guess that’s one reason he stood out. We’re talking about the middle of summer, and you’ve got a man standing in the street with his hood up. He had blue jeans on, and…Yes, he was carrying a black rucksack.”

  “What about skin tone?”

  “He was a white male. I didn’t get a look at his face because it was shrouded. I can’t be certain of an age. But I noticed that he had very broad shoulders. I imagined him being muscular beneath that top. I’m sorry.”

  “Angula, there’s no need to be sorry. I’m just glad you spotted something. Did Janet see him?”

  “Yes, sorry. I noticed him first. And then Janet spotted him a few times. I remember seeing him on one occasion. And then about five minutes later Janet said she was just popping out for a few minutes. When I looked again, the man was gone. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But after what happened, I’ve got this awful feeling in my stomach. Do you think he may be connected to your investigation?”

  Abby didn’t have an answer. Nevertheless, the lead needed to be fully investigated. She thanked Angula for her time and left. The first thing Abby did when she stepped out was to glance up and down the road. Shit,
she thought. There was no evidence of CCTV cameras. She had hoped that perhaps one or two of the shops may have security systems. She only hoped that perhaps some shops may have cameras positioned inside that gave a clear view of the street beyond. She called Mike to ask him to get the ball rolling.

  16

  For someone who claimed he was a legitimate businessman, the level of security that Ryan McCormick surrounded himself with appeared disproportionate. He had made a few enemies in his time, which would explain the ring of steel that surrounded his house. Set in an elevated position overlooking the marina, it commanded magnificent views, and afforded him the privacy he had paid for.

  Scott had first waited by the large brown oak doors and announced himself through the intercom. “Please wait there,” had been the reply some fifteen minutes ago. Scott took his time. He had nowhere to go, and his arrival was more of an inconvenience for Ryan McCormick than it was for him. That he was being kept waiting was McCormick’s way of exerting control. He was no doubt used to having police visit him regularly.

  The oak doors parted, wheeling back in their tracks, the low hum of the motor breaking the silence of the evening. He stepped through into a small courtyard surrounded by ten-foot-high railings. Scott had seen security before, but this level of protection appeared excessive. He was in another secure area, a small compound where visitors were vetted.

  A large, well-built man dressed in a dark, two-piece suit stepped through a single gate. Two CCTV cameras positioned above the railings monitored Scott’s every move. “You are?”

  Scott had already announced himself in intercom, but would play along with the man’s games. “I’m Detective Inspector Baker from Brighton CID. I have an appointment with Irish Mick.”

  Scott’s lack of respect for addressing the man’s employer perturbed the heavy. “It’s Mr McCormick to all visitors. I’m Declan Rafferty, part of Mr McCormick’s security detail.”

  Security detail? A fancy name for a bodyguard, Scott thought, sizing him up. He put Declan Rafferty at around six feet five inches, several inches taller than himself, but Rafferty appeared heavier. He imagined the man weighed closer to eighteen or even nineteen stone, with a thickset neck, that appeared as wide as Rafferty’s head. His suit jacket strained to contain the immense shoulders and powerful arms. Scott knew that the guy was ex-forces, probably the paras or marines.

  Rafferty had a menacing look about him. With a shaved head, and a short trimmed, stubbly beard, his eyes were narrow thin slits. “ID?” His voice echoed through the space, hard, aggressive and deep.

  Scott presented his warrant card.

  Having glanced at Scott’s ID for a few moments, he glanced up towards one of the CCTV cameras and raised his arm.

  “Is all this necessary? I’m only popping in for a cuppa,” Scott added.

  Rafferty didn’t rise to the bait. “This way, sir.”

  Lit up like a Christmas tree, McCormick’s house shimmered in the night sky. There were more lights on outside than there were inside. Scott noticed the abundance of CCTV cameras dotted around the gardens and main building. Opulence exuded from every corner of the property. Large palm trees framed the large stone steps and balustrade that led up to the main door. Scott thought it resembled a grand Spanish hacienda, its position commanding a comfortable price tag over two million pounds.

  Another heavy opened the door as Rafferty and Scott entered. The Spanish feel continued inside, with polished marble floors, dark exposed wood and bright whitewashed walls. Scott noticed that in the centre of the hallway floor laid in marble, were the dark brown initials “RM” done in a fancy italic style, that contrasted with the mottled light cream marble floor tiles.

  Scott rolled his eyes at the flamboyance of the man. With McCormick’s connections to the Costa del Sol, Scott wasn’t surprised that Spanish architectural styles had influenced his home. You could have been mistaken for being in a secluded hacienda, tucked away in the Spanish hills overlooking the hustle and bustle of Puerto Banus.

  Rafferty led Scott into a large expanse of room at the back of the house. The exterior wall was lined with a series of glass doors which led on to a large veranda and entertaining area that wrapped itself around a substantial swimming pool.

  A man sat at the end of a long table, dressed in an expensive grey suit with an open-neck shirt. He glanced up to see his visitor. Ryan McCormick was in his late fifties. His face looked older. A combination of a hard life, too many fights in his youth, and far too much Spanish sun, had left it looking worn and leathered.

  “Detective Inspector Baker,” he said, drawing out each word. “It’s a pleasure. I’m just finishing my dinner. If you’re hungry, I can always get my cook to rustle up a few of the leftovers. I’m sure there are a few scraps I can throw your way.”

  Scott declined his offer. “Thank you for sparing me the time.”

  McCormick raised his hands in the air. “I’m always happy to help and entertain the local boys in blue. How is CC Lennon?” he asked raising a brow. “Please send in my regards. And the same goes for Meadows. I’ve not had the pleasure myself, but from what I can gather, he’s a good copper and is always open to suggestion.”

  Scott had no intention of rising to the bait. It was common knowledge that McCormick was in favour with some police officers across the country. Proving it was another thing altogether.

  “Can I get your drink? A cigar? I’ve got a nice box of King of Denmark’s, they’re a hundred and fifty pounds a pop. To be enjoyed, nice and slowly, savouring every moment, just like a good woman.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I’m investigating the suspicious death of Janet Ashman, the wife of Samuel Ashman the journalist.”

  McCormick offered his condolences and mentioned that he had met Ashman frequently but had never met his wife. He had found Ashman both polite and inquisitive. But stressed his surprise at how Ashman appeared determined to investigate him and his legitimate business empire.

  “When was the last time you saw Ashman?”

  “Inspector, I don’t recall. A long time ago.”

  “Why do you think he wanted to investigate you?”

  McCormick laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m a successful and very wealthy businessman and entrepreneur. I started my life on the housing estates in Belfast. He is curious how I’ve done it. Anyone would be.”

  “I think it was more than that, don’t you?”

  McCormick continued to chuckle to himself. “Okay, okay. Joking aside. He seems to have a bee in his bonnet about me. For some stupid fucking reason, the eejit still thinks I’m in my late teens, siphoning petrol and selling illegal cigarettes on street corners.”

  “I don’t think so,” Scott replied, looking around the sumptuous surroundings.

  “You see, Inspector, I work fucking hard. I work seven days a week. I have business interests in this country and abroad, so my hours are erratic and long. Everything you see around you is because of my efforts, my dedication and my focus. Speak to my accountants, and they’ll give you a full breakdown of where all my income comes from, and how I can afford this.”

  Scott didn’t doubt for one minute that his small army of accountants and lawyers had created a plausible and legitimate paper trail to cover his operations. It was a reason he had eluded the authorities.

  “I understand Ashman was looking into Eastern European crime syndicates and the influence, and connection with your businesses.”

  McCormick tapped his index finger on the table as he stiffened and glared at Scott. “Those Eastern European tossers have got nothing on me. We both know that there are hundreds of Albanians, Russians and Bulgarians over here. They’ve got their dirty, grubby little fingers in lots of different pies. But they are just small-time. They might be big at home, but they’re nothing here. They have nothing to do with my businesses. I have nothing to do with their businesses. Do you hear me? Fuck all of them.”

  Scott nodded, entertaining McCormick’s assessment, whilst he witne
ssed a change in the man’s temperament.

  “Then why all the heavies and the fortress walls?”

  “Inspector, Inspector.” McCormick shook his head in despair. “I thought you had more intelligence. Perhaps they’re lowering the minimum requirement in the police these days. I run successful businesses here, God bless the Queen, and in Europe. I’m looking to expand into the US, and the Far East. Shall I tell you why I protect myself? Jealousy. Greed. My success pisses people off. So, I have to protect myself. There will be plenty of people out there,” McCormick continued waving his hand towards the back windows, “who are forming a queue to have a pop at me.”

  Scott stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around the large room. Large paintings adorned the rustic-looking walls, the Spanish influence clear to see with dry Spanish landscapes and mountain village scenes.

  “You think I had something to do with the woman’s death? If that’s the case, then your logic is flawed, Inspector. If, I had stooped that low, and that was my style, then I wouldn’t bump off the wife. I’d make Ashman disappear. I’m not bothered about Ashman’s nosing around, or what he uncovered. If he had found something, you wouldn’t be popping in here for a chat. You’d be coming over the walls and kicking down doors with the tactical boys.”

  “So you know nothing about this?”

  “Inspector, this is getting tedious. I suggest you look elsewhere.”

  “Mr McCormick, we may have not met before, but let me assure you, I will look into your affairs, and I will watch you.”

  “Carry on watching me, Inspector, by all means. Just in the way that I watch you. You take your breaks at the Munch coffee shop. You’ve been seen around town with a new lady, a rather attractive pathologist. You like running along the seafront with that skinny, pretty sergeant of yours, and you like a good Indian. But then don’t we all.” He laughed. “Mr Rafferty will see you out now.”

  The door opened behind Scott and the Incredible Hulk appeared. He left the house in silence. Once he returned to the main road, he noticed how his fingers trembled, and his heart raced.