The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Before you die, you’ll tell us everything,’ Walters said.

  ‘Please let me down. I’ll talk.’

  ‘What we want is the truth. Once down, you will lie, but believe me, strung up there you will tell only the truth. All you need to worry about now is whether your death will be soon, or whether we’ll keep you strung up for another two days. A few cuts to the body and then the insects will find you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that?’

  ‘Why not, and besides it will be fun,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘That bastard Brazilian was fun. You’re a gambler. Do you want to place a bet? What do you reckon? Two days, three, maybe four before you die.’

  ‘Let me down, please.’ Pinto, frightened and alone in a warehouse with two murderous men, was ready to talk.

  ‘Not until you tell us something.’

  ‘And then you’ll let me down?’

  ‘It depends if you tell us the truth.’

  ‘The police don’t believe I killed Dave.’

  ‘That may be true,’ O’Shaughnessy said. He released the rope slightly to allow Pinto to stand flat footed on the concrete floor. ‘You help us, we help you.’

  ‘Did you tell them the truth about what had happened to Dave?’

  ‘No.’

  Walters wrenched on the rope, pulling Pinto’s feet firmly off the ground. There was an audible pop as one of his shoulders dislocated. ‘I hope you aren’t left-handed,’ Walters said.

  Pinto moaned and said nothing. O’Shaughnessy shook him violently. ‘Are you still with us?’

  ‘Yes.’ A weak murmur.

  O’Shaughnessy turned to Walters. ‘Don’t do that again. My money is on him lasting for three days. If you keep doing that he’ll only last one before he’s dead, and besides I want to see what happens when the flies find him.’

  Walters looked towards O’Shaughnessy, ensuring that Pinto was aware of the repartee between the two men. ‘Sorry. I’ll be more careful next time.’

  O’Shaughnessy turned back to Pinto. ‘What did you tell them about Dave’s death?’

  Pinto knew only too well what would happen if he lied again. ‘I told the police that I had seen him die.’

  ‘That’s sounds right. You’re there trying to save your skin. What do your friends matter?’

  ‘I never mentioned your names.’

  ‘Pinto, you must think we’re stupid.’

  Vicenzo Pinto realised that the moment they had their truth, he was a dead man. He wanted to curse that smart-arse lawyer for getting him bail; he wanted to curse the police inspector who had not objected strongly enough. He wanted to curse his miserable life, but the pain that he was suffering was too intense.

  ‘It’s the truth. I never mentioned your names.’

  ‘And out on bail within a week. We know they had a warrant out for our arrest,’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  ‘That wasn’t my doing.’

  ‘How did they find the warehouse where we cut him up?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying. Do you want to hear your other shoulder dislocating?’

  ‘No. I’ve told you the truth. Honest.’

  ‘We don’t trust you,’ Walters said. ‘And now we’re hiding out, thanks to you. Are you keeping in contact with the police? Letting them know how our organisation works? Are you giving names and places in exchange for bail and a cushy prison? Should we let you live or should we make an example of you, the same as we did with Dave?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all I know if you’ll promise…’

  ‘Steve, let him down. He may as well be comfortable while he tells us the full story.’

  Pinto, released from the rope, sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the warehouse. Walters leant against a dirty wall; O’Shaughnessy sat on an old desk that had been left when the previous tenant had vacated.

  ‘Now tell us the truth,’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  Pinto had no option. His only hope was to be open and honest. The rope strung over a beam was hanging loose. Walters maintained a firm grip on one end of the rope; the other was still binding Pinto’s wrists.

  ‘I told them about the warehouse. They were going to charge me with murder.’

  ‘To save yourself you told them about the warehouse and us.’

  ‘Yes.’ Walters pulled on his end of the rope.

  ‘Did you tell them about your trips to France and the vehicles you brought back.’

  ‘Some, not all.’

  ‘And now our whole operation is jeopardised.’

  ‘Why? I don’t know how it operates.’

  ‘The police interest is cramping our normal operation,’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  ‘They had cameras. They saw me dump Dave.’

  ‘Did you tell them about the man in the blue suit?’

  ‘Yes, but I never knew who he was.’

  ‘And they’ve released you on bail for being a good boy. Are you in their pay?’

  ‘No.’

  A voice in the office to one side could be heard. ‘Enough. I don’t need to hear any more. The man’s a liability. You know what to do.’

  Walters grabbed his end of the rope and pulled hard. Vicenzo Pinto felt his body being yanked from the chair and pulled upwards. He knew he would not be coming down alive.

  Chapter 10

  Isaac had finally met up with Jess O’Neill. The evening had gone well, and she had spent the night at his flat. The two had discussed moving in together again but decided to wait and see. She was still the executive producer of the country’s most successful nightly TV drama. The older actors had all been replaced by younger, unknown actors after market research had shown that the programme needed an update and fresh blood, and the accountants had decreed that they had to keep down costs.

  Isaac had to admit that whereas their night together had been great, he still had a problem in that he tended to take his work home with him.

  The case of the death of Dougal Stewart, the possible deaths of Rodrigo Fuentes and Vicenzo Pinto, was baffling. The drugs were still being sold on the street, so someone was still running the trade, and it was evident from Rasta Joe that it was the syndicate in which O’Shaughnessy and Walters were only minor functionaries.

  Inspector Len Donaldson of Serious and Organised Crime Command had come over to the office in Challis Street to brief the team. An agreeable dark-haired man with a distinctive Scottish accent, he fitted in well.

  ‘There’s always one organisation or another attempting to take control,’ Donaldson said. The team were seated in a conference room. ‘We’re aware that the new player is exerting force on the others.’

  ‘And killing those who resist?’ Larry asked.

  ‘That’s how they deal with the opposition. Either you’re with us, or you’re dead.’

  ‘Devlin O’Shaughnessy and Steve Walters,’ Isaac asked. ‘Are they known to you?’

  ‘They’ve been around for a while.’

  ‘Who’s behind the syndicate?’ Larry asked.

  ‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I realise that, but every time we get close to an answer, they go underground. We’ve come close on a couple of occasions, but nothing’s eventuated. A confirmed murder should make it easier to put them out of business.’

  ‘You've seen our reports?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘You’ve had more success than us,’ Donaldson acknowledged.

  ‘Apart from O’Shaughnessy and Walters, we’re only aware of a man in a blue suit. Any idea who he is?’

  ‘We’ve had surveillance on O’Shaughnessy’s landlord.’

  ‘The devout churchgoer?’ Larry asked.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘You’ve brought him in for questioning?’

  ‘We have nothing against him.’

  ‘Then why is he a suspect?’

  ‘Profiling. The man professes to be pious, yet during the week he’s in the company of O’Shaughnes
sy, and then on Sunday, he’s down the church asking for forgiveness.

  ‘O’Shaughnessy and Hughenden are together during the week?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Hughenden’s not a drinker, so you wouldn’t see him down the pub, but apart from that the two men are very friendly.’

  ‘Gay?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Hughenden may be, but not Devlin O’Shaughnessy. Every Friday night after the pub he visits one of the local whores.’

  ‘Apart from a suspicion, what else do you have?’

  ‘Not a lot really; more supposition than anything else. We know that Hughenden spent time in prison when he was a lot younger.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Passing forged cheques. Since then no convictions.’

  ‘He’s got money,’ Larry said.

  ‘Inheritance. Strictly above board, although he’s amassed a lot more since then.’

  ‘If he’s involved, there’s no apparent sign of drug money.’

  ‘Have you been in the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve seen the paintings on the walls?’

  ‘Some were very good.’

  ‘Some are extremely expensive. Some are even worth more than the house.’

  ‘Hughenden said that the furniture and the decorations were O’Shaughnessy’s.’

  ‘It’s possible some are, but the paintings are all Hughenden’s. We’ve checked out the purchases. He used a different name and paid cash. They’re better than money in the bank.’

  ‘In that case, we’d better bring him in,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I want to be present when you interview him,’ Donaldson said. ‘The bastard knows me.’

  ***

  Three men met: Devlin O’Shaughnessy, Steve Walters, and Alex Hughenden. The location was outside London, another property owned by Hughenden; the address known only to those present.

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ Hughenden said. ‘The police are looking for you, and I’ve been summoned down to Challis Street Police Station.’

  ‘They’ve got nothing on you,’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  ‘Nothing they can prove, but I’ve got my reputation to protect.’

  ‘With the money you’re being paid, why should you care?’ Walters said sneeringly. It was evident he did not like the precise, elegantly dressed man.

  ‘That may be so, but I like it here. I don’t want to move to Thailand and hide out in Phuket with a woman young enough to be my daughter.’ It was clear that the dislike between the two men was mutual. Walters spoke poor English, whereas Hughenden was particular with his pronunciation.

  Regardless of their mutual disdain, they needed each other. In fact, all three needed the other, as much as they needed the man who remained unknown, a voice at the end of the phone, a bank account generous in distributing its funds. Unknown to everyone except Hughenden.

  Hughenden pondered what to do about the two heavies: one he liked, the other he did not.

  The two men had become a liability, and although they had carried out their tasks successfully, they had become too well known in the community, and O’Shaughnessy’s friendship with him was known.

  The man who Hughenden communicated with sat in another part of London. He listened in on the conversation, unknown to O’Shaughnessy and Walters.

  Hughenden was playing his cards carefully, well aware that his life was in the hands of a man that he had met once. He knew that the man would protect him at all costs.

  After all, hadn’t he taken the rough ideas and formed them into a credible drug trafficking organisation for the man, Hughenden thought.

  He had to admit that without the man’s money, it would not have been successful. But Hughenden knew that he had been putting himself in the spotlight, incurring the interest of Inspector Len Donaldson of Serious and Organised Crime Command, but the police officer had nothing on him, nothing that could be proven.

  Hughenden knew he had covered his tracks well, and, as far as the local community and his local church were concerned, he was a pious man who gave to charity, helped out with the church services. Walters did not understand what he had achieved, he knew that. But what was Walters? Just another thug with a passion for maiming people and then cutting them up.

  Hughenden had to concede that the two men had done a good job dealing with those who had threatened the syndicate. Fuentes had been dealt with, he knew that, although his body would not be found. The murder of Dougal Stewart had sent the right warning, but after the trouble it had caused, he was not sure it had been worth it.

  Alex Hughenden had believed it was necessary to frighten those who threatened their well-being and their bank accounts. Hughenden knew that the money in his account was exceedingly healthy, and the joy of buying masterpieces to adorn the walls of his property in Bayswater excited him. Not that anything else did, he had to admit. He knew he was a solitary man, fussing over the old dears at the church, giving his time to hopeless causes.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ O’Shaughnessy asked.

  Hughenden, brought back to reality, asked, ‘What about Pinto?’

  ‘Stiff as a board.’

  ‘He’s still complete?’ Hughenden asked.

  ‘We couldn’t chop him up there.’

  ‘That may be as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Pinto dumping the torso in Regent’s Canal was probably not the best idea.’

  ‘Are you admitting that you were wrong?’ Walters asked. He had advised against it in the first place. He had killed before, never been charged with murder, and why? Because the body had never been found, and there was no way of connecting it back to him. Fuentes had disappeared, and no one, at least no one official, had come looking for him. He had heard of a woman who had been enquiring after him, as well as some drug peddlers, but the woman was no longer around and the drug peddlers were now buying from them.

  ‘Has there been any trouble with anyone else trying to muscle in, attempting to cheat us?’ Hughenden asked. He knew the man on the phone would be listening to his reply.

  ‘Everyone is behaving themselves,’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  ‘I just think we could have disposed of him somewhere else; somewhere that didn’t focus police interest in our part of the city.’

  ‘Hindsight,’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘What about Pinto? What did he tell the police?’

  ‘You were there. You heard him.’

  ‘He told them all that he knew. He told them about you two.’

  ‘And you’re still in the clear,’ Walters said.

  Alex Hughenden looked over at Walters. Your day will come, he thought.

  The man on the other end of the phone listened intently. He did not intend to reveal himself to O’Shaughnessy and Walters. He pondered what to do about Alex Hughenden, a man now directly on the police radar. The man had performed well and protected him, but for how much longer?

  The man knew that Hughenden was a sadist and had enjoyed watching the two men carve up Dougal Stewart. He also knew that if the police had any proof against Hughenden, he would grass on them all. The man knew that his position in society was more important than Hughenden’s, and the concealment of his identity was paramount.

  ***

  A meeting of the board in the city was not unusual, although the topic was. Behind the veil of respectability, four men met. One was an MP, a member of parliament, another a well-respected businessman, another a peer of the realm. The fourth man, the mastermind who had put the business plan to them two years earlier, had been persuasive. He knew of the others’ vices. The MP had a penchant for expensive whores, the businessman needed to stave off a competitor, and the peer of the realm needed to save his family’s fortune.

  It had been a pact that the four had formed when they had been at Eton College; an agreement that still held them together. Whenever one of them had an idea to float, he would put it to the others first, and if they rejected it, then
they would respect that person’s confidence, no matter how ludicrous or criminal the idea.

  Miles Fortescue was the MP for a constituency in the north of England, although he did not like the area, having only moved there because it was a secure seat and he was desperate to be in Westminster. Not that he saw his constituents very often, as his party could have put up a half-educated donkey and kept the seat. He had won fifteen years previously with fifty-five per cent of the vote, and he had only bought the run-down house there to satisfy the locals. As long as he went up there once a month to show his face, say a few words, kiss a few babies, he knew he would continue to be their local member in Westminster. Any more than that and he wasn’t interested.

  His wife interested him more as she had money, but not much else. He would admit to the other three in the room that she was as exciting as an old prune and that he did not like her. To everyone else, she was the beautiful wife on the arm of an MP, and their open signs of affection were almost embarrassing at times.

  ‘You screw who you want,’ she had said after two years of marriage, ‘but no scandal. In public, we’ll be the perfect married couple, even if you are odious and contemptible.’

  Fortescue, once free of the pretence, had turned to what he enjoyed more: expensive women who demanded overseas trips and luxury cars and upmarket accommodation. His latest, at the time when the fourth member of the group had put forward his plan, came with the need for a credit card with no limit. She had been bleeding him dry, and he knew he could not stop indulging her. He had been the first to embrace the idea of illegal drugs.

  Fortescue had known then, as he had always known, that his wife had been right; he was odious and contemptible, and whatever was required to allow him to live the life he wanted, there were no issues about it.

  Jacob Griffiths had done well in life. In the twenty-five years since the four had left Eton, he had been the most successful. A chain of supermarkets up and down the country, an adoring wife, three children and a sixteenth-century manor house, an hour from London. It had all come about through sheer hard work and talent.

  The day that the fourth man had put forward his proposal had been a dark day for him, as an overseas competitor with even more supermarkets was undercutting prices, even below wholesale. Griffiths knew their game. He had even done it occasionally, aiming to drive a local competitor out of business, but the overseas supermarket chain was doing it throughout the country. He knew what they wanted; they wanted him out of business, and they were going to succeed. There were three options: accept their ridiculous offer for his business, match them on prices, or close up and accept defeat. Griffiths knew that two of the options were unacceptable, but a price war cost money; money he could not afford to risk just in case the competitor didn’t back off.