Grave Passion

by Phillip Strang

  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.’

  ‘Your 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.

  In Canning Town, a depressed mood pervaded, so sharp it could almost be sliced with a knife. Outside the station: graffiti everywhere, a lone man walking down the street, two women pushing prams, covered from head to toe in black.

  England to him was fish and chips, a pint of beer, each to their own, mind your own business.

  Yes, Larry thought, Canning Town was somewhere he could make a difference, not in Notting Hill or Bayswater or Holland Park, and even the gangs up there were becoming gentrified with their illicitly-gained affluence, now put into honest pursuits.

  ‘Inspector Ross,’ Isaac said.

  ‘He’ll be out in a minute,’ the sergeant said.

  Canning Town Police Station was equipped for twice the number of police officers, but few wanted to be there, and coercion was oft used; postings for the most miserable and disreputable, those who did no credit to the Met.

  Bill Ross burst through the door behind the duty sergeant. ‘A result,’ he said, ‘and you must be Larry Hill,’ warmly grabbing Larry’s hand and shaking it. ‘A low-life, out back in the interview room. You’ll want to see him, no doubt.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Isaac said. ‘A confession?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s as easy as picking fruit off a tree,’ Ross said. ‘We pulled him in last night for public drunkenness, not sure why we do, as they claim a deprived childhood, discrimination, no money, and so on.’

  ‘Then why?’ Larry asked.

  ‘We need to maintain our quota. The superintendent, he’s a stickler for performance, after us every other day.’

  ‘We’ve got one of our own,’ Larry said.

  Enough of the banter, Isaac thought. Time to see what Bill Ross had.

  In the interview room, a youth of nineteen, in a hooded jacket with the hood pushed back.

  ‘Your name?’ Ross said. Isaac sat to one side of him; Larry was outside.

  ‘You know it. I told you before,’ the youth said. He was of Caribbean descent, probably Jamaican, born in England.

  Legal aid had been provided. Across from Isaac, an Asian woman dressed in neat and tidy blue jacket and trousers. She looked competent.

  ‘It’s important that you answer,’ the woman said.

  ‘My friends call me Wazza.’

  ‘It’s a game they play,’ Ross said, looking over at Isaac. ‘Thinks it makes them look big, coming in here and wasting our time. A badge of honour, us asking them questions, the magistrate letting them off. Street cred, the only qualifications they are likely to ever have.’

  Isaac could sympathise with Bill Ross, and it was true, the young man was part of a legion of unemployed, straight out of school, no chance of a job, onto the street and surviving the only way they knew. It was a failing of the government, he knew, the government that had condemned his parents to purgatory and slum landlords when they had arrived in the country before he had been born. Back then, there had been racial prejudice, and although he rarely experienced it, he knew that in Canning Town he still would.

  Nothing changes. The underdog would always be there, as would crime and prejudice. The young man with the contemptuous attitude was the result of a system that had let him down, a democratic belief in equality, a fair go for all, that had gone wrong.

  ‘Warren Preston,’ the youth said.

  ‘Mr Preston, thank you. You were in the cell cooling off after a night of drinking. Not like your people to drink, more often it’s ganja or ecstasy.’

  ‘It was my birthday. The boys took me to the pub.’

  ‘The boys range from fifteen up to twenty-three,’ Ross said, looking over at Isaac once again.

  ‘Not older?’

  ‘A few will end up in prison; some will die at the hands of another gang, or kill themselves with drugs. One even froze to death last winter when we had that cold snap.’

  ‘Is this relevant?’ the legal aid said.

  ‘I’m just setting the scene for DCI Cook. He’s not from around here; He operates out of Challis Street, up near Notting Hill, more your part of the world.’

  ‘Where I live is not relevant, my client is.’ A sharp rebuttal. The woman was all business, Isaac could see. No doubt efficient, almost certainly believed that Preston was of little worth, but she’d do her job.

  ‘All of you, ganging up on me. What chance do I have?’ Preston grabbed hold of his corner of the metal table, attempted to lift it in an act of defiance.

  ‘It’s bolted to the floor,’ Ross said. ‘You’re wasting your time. Now, why don’t you just sit there and tell your lawyer what you said to me last night? After you’ve done that we can take your statement, have you up before the magistrate and then find you a cosy cell in prison until your trial comes up.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘If this is badgering my client, I can’t allow it,’ the legal aid said.

  Bill Ross took no notice. It wasn’t Challis Street, and he was pushing hard, probably too hard, running the risk of a confession given under duress by a man who, if not illiterate, was clearly unable to understand the seriousness of the position he was in. Isaac had used the technique before, but he had had some evidence behind him; he hoped Ross did.

  ‘When you were hauled into the station, and I asked you about a man being knifed down near the Durham Arms, you told me that you knew about it.’

  ‘So what, everyone knows what goes on, and why worry? One of us dies, and you don’t care. And you, the black man, are you on his side?’ Preston said, looking over at Isaac.

  ‘I’m on the side of law and justice. The only problem in this room is you. I was with the dead man not long before he was killed. It could have been me; the question is should it have been, was it me they wanted?’

  ‘If I talk, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Are you willing to drop charges against my client if he cooperates?’ the lawyer said.

  ‘He’s here for public drunkenness. I’m willing to consider it.’

  ‘That’s a yes,’ the lawyer said, looking at her client.

  ‘Okay. It was the night he died. There was six of us. A man approached us.’

  ‘Describe him?’ Isaac said.

  ‘White, dressed like you.’

  ‘Well-spoken, educated? He should have been frightened. Why wasn’t he?’

  ‘He handed each of us a couple of fifty-pound notes, said there was more if we cooperated.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Not me, but some of the others did.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘I’ll not grass, not on the gang.’

  ‘Loyalty or fear?’

  ‘I don’t want to end up the same as that man, a knife in my gut, my balls stuffed in my mouth.’

  ‘He was knifed, not castrated.’

  ‘He wasn’t a member of our gang.’

  ‘Tell the police what they want, and we can get out of here,’ the lawyer said. ‘It’s getting late, and I have other clients to deal with.’

  ‘Canning Town?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Everyone has the right to justice, to legal representation, or don’t you believe in that?’

  Isaac did, so did the lawyer, but she had no intention of remaining in the area any longer than necessary. She’d do what was required, but no more.

  ‘He said five hundred pounds to anyone who did what he wanted, no questions asked.’

  ‘Who agreed?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  He was putty in Bill Ross’s hands. Warren Preston could have kept quiet, fronted the magistrate, received a fine, probably not paid it, but he wasn’t smart enough to realise that. His legal aid lawyer wasn’t about to interrupt him either. He was small fry, not worth more than a modest stipend to her. She would have more prestigious clients, those that would make it worth her time.

  ‘What did he want?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He said for us to check you out in
the pub.’

  ‘Which you did?’

  ‘I didn’t; they did. I wasn’t involved.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ Ross asked Isaac.

  ‘I wasn’t looking, but someone could have looked in the window.’

  ‘We had a patrol car there.’

  ‘It was before that,’ Preston said.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘Not to me. Not that I cared, I wasn’t going to kill anyone.’

  ‘Because you couldn’t?’

  ‘Preston’s killed, another gang’s member, not that we’ll ever prove it,’ Ross said to Isaac.

  ‘Is that it?’ Isaac said. ‘Mr Preston, you’ve killed?’

  ‘My client will not answer that question. Now, if you don’t mind, I suggest we wrap this up, let my client leave.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Ross said.

  ‘He said he wanted the old man killed; to make it look as though it was a robbery,’ Preston said. ‘We weren’t asking questions, not with that amount.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just take it from him?’

  ‘There was a car nearby, a man inside. He had a gun, one of those that fires lots of bullets, real expensive.’

  ‘Pointed at you?’

  ‘At all of us.’

  ‘The car, describe it?’

  ‘A BMW, dark blue.’

  ‘Registration number?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking, nobody was.’

  Larry, listening from the other room, took out his phone and called the police in Godstone.

  ‘Describe the man with the money, the other one in the car.’

  ‘It was dark; we only saw the gun. The other man, he wore a hat, the collar on his coat turned up.’

  Ross turned to Isaac. ‘You’ve got twenty-four hours, forty-eight at a push. We’ll be holding Mr Preston here until then.’

  ‘The charge?’ the lawyer asked. Her coat was across her lap, her handbag on the table, the case file closed. She was going, regardless.

  ‘Mr Preston will be held on suspicion of murder. You may wish to believe him, but I don’t, nor does DCI Cook. It’s not the first time that Mr Preston and I have crossed swords. It might be the last.’