DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  But he was no longer young or fit, and now his age had committed him to a life of celibacy; not that he minded, but… the mind was still young, even if the body was not.

  The sight of the naked Gloria had caused a twitching in his loins, although he didn’t fancy her. He had to admit that it was probably drunken men who found her attractive; sober, they would have looked the other way. Still, even she had tempted, and then the great put-down: old and ugly.

  Sara, as always eager to push on, held court in the office. A team player, she had brought a pizza back with her. Keith was pleased at the gesture. He had worked with some miserable sods during his career, and he had to admit that working with Sara was alright.

  ‘Where can you obtain these drugs?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Black market,’ Keith’s reply. ‘And then some of those who obtain them legitimately sell them to make extra money.’

  ‘Assuming that the drugs in the bathroom were antipsychotics, she may have had a prescription,’ Sean said.

  ‘If she did, then under what name, and what were the drugs?’ Keith said.

  ‘We’ve checked for an Ingrid Bentham. There are no prescriptions against that name,’ Sara said.

  ‘Her flatmate said that the name on the labels had been scratched off, anyway,’ Keith added.

  ‘She’s hardly a reliable witness,’ Sean said, ever eager to add his input. Keith Greenstreet intimidated him: the experienced DI and the wet-behind-the-ears detective constable.

  ‘As you say, hardly reliable,’ Sara conceded.

  ‘Did she make a play for you?’ Keith asked dryly. ‘Was she prancing around with no underwear again?’ He knew he was winding up the young constable, aware that Sara appreciated the humour.

  ‘Apparently that is reserved for you, DI,’ Sean responded. He knew he was being baited, and he had no intention of biting.

  ‘Okay, boys. We’ve got a case to solve, and the DCI wants a result,’ Sara said.

  The drugs, assumed to be Chlorpromazine or possibly Clozapine, although not confirmed, were, according to Grace Nelson, dopamine blockers, with known side effects. Long-term use, which seemed possible with Ingrid Bentham, could cause nausea, vomiting, blurred vision and some other complaints, and Clozapine required regular blood checks.

  ‘According to Grace Nelson,’ Sara said, ‘the drugs prescribed and their dosage are regularly evaluated. If Ingrid Bentham has slipped off the radar, no longer taking the right dosage, then she could be volatile, subject to change in her mental stability.’

  ‘Likely to kill again,’ Sean said.

  ‘She’s hardly likely to be taking them now,’ Keith said.

  ‘There’s no way that we would know.’

  ‘She’s killed once, another murder may not concern her.’

  ‘Twice, if the carving on Chalmers was correct.’

  ‘As you say, Keith, her second murder. Any ideas on how to find out?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Newcastle. I have a contact there. I’ve already phoned him on a couple of occasions, but a personal visit always works best.’

  ‘I’ll work on the DCI,’ Sara said.

  Keith smiled back at her but said nothing. What he wanted to say would have broken every rule in the book of political correctness. He was certain she would get permission.

  ***

  ‘If it’s vital,’ Bob Marshall said. As usual everyone, including Sean and Keith, was in the office late. It was past nine, and Sara needed two more hours before she had completed all the paperwork. The one unfortunate aspect of policing was the need for reporting. It wasn’t that she was not good at it, as she was, but there was a murder enquiry, and sitting in the office filling in reports for senior management to survey briefly, and then file in the box of disinterest, did not excite her.

  However, a deranged woman interested them more than usual. It was not the first time that a psychotic individual had been on the loose, and each time it raised interest in the media. Their interest ebbed and flowed depending on local and international events – a terrorist attack in the Middle East, an election somewhere else – but the death of Gregory Chalmers continued to appear on the internet and the television news programmes.

  Bob had been asked to bring in additional help, but he was still holding firm against a recommendation from Detective Superintendent Rowsome to do it now.

  ‘On your head,’ he had said. ‘I’ve made my recommendation. If this goes pear-shaped, then it will protect me. If you don’t follow through, don’t blame me if you find yourself back on the street in uniform.’

  Bob Marshall recognised the threat. He had had little respect for Rowsome before; now, he had none. As far as he was concerned, Sara was doing fine, even Keith Greenstreet had admitted that to him, and he was not a man known for his benevolence to a fellow police officer.

  The detective chief inspector had argued the case with his detective superintendent, put him off for the present, but he could only afford to give Sara another week at most. Then, girlfriend or not, he was going to have to pull her off the case, or at least, out of the senior officer’s chair. He considered Keith Greenstreet, but he was slowing down. It would have to be someone from another station. If Sara wanted Keith up north, then she would have his permission.

  ‘You’ve got your permission,’ Sara said. Keith was wrapping up for the evening; more likely falling asleep in his chair.

  ‘Don’t expect me in the office tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Surprised he gave in so quickly.’

  ‘DCI Marshall is under pressure for us to give him a result,’ Sara said.

  ‘Is that it?’ A grin spread across Keith Greenstreet’s face.

  ‘Keith, wash your mouth out.’

  ‘Late night bit of fun, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll forgive you if you come back with a result. What’s the plan?’

  ‘Check with a DI there, my age.’

  ‘Retirement age, is that it?’ Sara touched on a sensitive subject. He had had some humour at her expense; she was only returning it.

  He did not like being reminded of the subject but accepted her comment gracefully. ‘Put out to pasture, more like.’

  Sean walked out with Keith. He still had another two hours’ study at home, part of the requirements for his Master’s degree. He was not being put out to pasture; he was only on the first rung of the promotion ladder. He had charted his course: DI in four years, DCI in six. After that, armed with a Master’s degree and the experience in Homicide, he knew he could make detective chief superintendent within ten.

  Ambitious he realised, but he was determined, and failure was not part of his vocabulary.

  Apart from the studying at home, his girlfriend was always supportive, but becoming tired of the lack of attention she was threatening to move out. Sean thought she wouldn’t, hoped she wouldn’t, but sacrifices had to be made. She wanted marriage, children, and a house in the suburbs, and that needed money, especially the house, as house prices in London were going through the roof. He could barely manage the payments on a two-bedroom apartment, and it was nothing special. Even a DI could not afford the house she wanted, and he only knew one way to circumvent the slow progress to senior management, and that was hard work, lots of it.

  He knew that he was up to the challenge. He only hoped his girlfriend was as well.

  Sara stayed for another hour, as did Bob. With no one else in the office, their approach to each other was less formal. Once, when everyone else had gone home, they had made love in his office.

  Sara was feeling the tension of the case, as was Bob, and both realised there was every possibility of a zero result.

  History of previous cases had shown that paranoid schizophrenics were unpredictable, especially if they were killers. Sometimes, for no explicable reason, they would snap, commit murder, calm down, and then regain their position in society. Nor did they fit the characteristic criminal mould. They could be council workers, lawyers, professionals, even police officers, although that seemed unlikely given the r
igorous scrutiny that the police went through on joining and during their career.

  Chapter 7

  Keith met Detective Inspector Rory Hewitt in Newcastle as planned. They had worked together on a few cases in the past, and each regarded the other as a friend.

  ‘Good to see you, Keith. Nasty business,’ Hewitt said. He was a few years younger, but closing in on retirement, the same as Keith, although he relished the prospect. An ardent golfer, he intended to try out the best courses around the world, courtesy of a substantial bequest from a favourite aunt on her passing.

  ‘Not the first time, is it?’ Keith said. It had been a hard drive, rain for most of the time, and he could feel the weariness in his bones. He knew deep down that retirement for him would not last for very long, whereas Rory Hewitt was still fit, even sported colour in his hair, although it was thinning. Keith assumed the colour came courtesy of a bottle. For Keith, what you are given is all that you get. He had no intention of dying his hair black or any other colour; there was not much left, and it was grey. And as for dieting and exercising, that was for others. Rory had tried to entice Keith to a game of golf once. Keith’s comment at the end of the day was the same as Winston Churchill’s, or was it Mark Twain, he was not sure which: ‘A waste of a good walk.’ Keith didn’t have much time for walking either, but Rory had taken his comment with the humour intended.

  ‘What do you need?’ Rory asked.

  ‘Ingrid Bentham, not her real name, carved the number 2 onto Chalmers’ chest.’

  ‘And you want the number 1? Long shot coming up here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Keith said, ‘but we’ve been around a long time. Our collective minds might find something not in the files.’

  ‘No murders up here that fit the bill.’

  ‘The best we have is that Ingrid Bentham had traces of a Newcastle accent. Apart from that, we have no idea who she is.’

  ‘Then we need to review old cases,’ Rory said. ‘I’m free for a few days.’

  ***

  Sara considered the case so far. They had a woman who had killed once, possibly twice, and there was the very real risk of a third time. Yet they had no idea who the woman was. Keith was trying to fill in some of the blanks, but Sara still had her concerns. Ingrid Bentham had arrived in London several years previously, and there were photos available to confirm that. The college she had attended had not provided much information, other than to say that she was an adequate student, hardworking, although she struggled at times.

  Sara had seen reports like it before; to her, it was a euphemism for not being too bright. Sean had seen it differently, in that his research had shown that with the drugs she was almost certainly taking, she would have had difficulties in focussing.

  Regardless of her educational record, she had certainly been astute enough to have gained the confidence of the Chalmers, as well as employers in a few previous jobs, mainly shop work.

  As far as Grace Nelson, the criminal psychologist was concerned, Ingrid was extreme, and she needed to be found at the earliest opportunity. Sean had taken up the search for the person who had purchased the ring that Ingrid Bentham had worn, hoping to find out where it had been engraved, but it seemed a pointless exercise. As keen as he was, he had to concede that the chances of success were slim.

  It was almost certainly a wedding ring. The condition of the ring, according to a local jeweller, placed its date of manufacture as thirty years ago. Sean assumed that it had belonged to Ingrid’s mother, which would indicate that the mother had given it to her. The engraving showed that to be possible.

  Sara advised Sean to put the ring to one side and to focus on something else, but what? They were out of ideas on how to proceed. An all-points warning had been put out for the woman, but they had little faith in it producing a result. Ingrid Bentham had no distinguishing features, her face was symmetrical, her height and figure average for a woman of her age, or what they thought was her age. Her college records indicated twenty-four, although that was not certain.

  Bob Marshall could see that Sara was floundering. The chief superintendent had already voiced his concerns over Sara’s competency.

  It wasn’t out of any discrimination against women, Detective Superintendent Rowsome had insisted, but Bob Marshall could see the man shifting responsibility, leaving him to carry the can. As far as Rowsome was concerned, a person’s ability was suspect until it was proven. This was Sara’s first murder trial and it was not going well. She knew how it worked, as did Bob. Ten successes and everyone respects you enormously; one failure, even after the ten, and your reputation is shattered.

  ***

  Keith and Rory reminisced over old cases they had worked on in the past. Keith had spent his working career in London, Rory predominantly in the north of the country, but villains are villains, and they are mobile.

  They had first met twenty-six years earlier when a gang of drug pushers attempted to expand their operation throughout the country. Both of them had been detective sergeants then. Rory had dealt with the case in his part of the world, Keith in London. After that, they exchanged information about suspected criminals, or about crimes that appeared to have similarities. They had met up on a few policing courses since then, sharing a few pints of beer of a night time.

  ‘What do you have?’ Rory asked, after they had found an empty room near the back of the police station.

  ‘What I’ve already told you. Female, mid-twenties, almost certainly a paranoid schizophrenic, and a murderer.’

  ‘The photo doesn’t tell us much, does it?’

  ‘She could dye the hair, cut it, and she’d not be recognisable.’

  ‘If she has, then it indicates that she is in control of her faculties.’

  ‘And aware that she had committed a murder,’ Keith said.

  ‘Guilty conscience, or is she paranoid enough to believe it was the voice in her head, or Gregory Chalmers deserved to die?’

  ‘Does it matter, at least to us? If she is as nutty as a fruit cake or as sane as you and me is not the issue.’

  ‘Agreed. We have dealt with enough in either category over the years. Whatever she is, she’s dangerous, but I don’t see how I can help.’

  ‘Rory, you keep records of people deemed dangerous. Assuming she has not committed a murder, would there be a record?’

  ‘Mental Health Register, although I’m not sure if it would record a minor, assuming that she was in Newcastle. Any idea as to age?’

  ‘Focus on female child offenders.’

  Rory and Keith spent the day poring over old cases. Apart from the death of a youth in a school playground, there were no other incidences that looked possible, and besides, the school playground murderer had been a ten-year-old boy high on drugs.

  ‘What about suspicious deaths?’ Keith asked over a pint of beer that night.

  ‘In the case of a minor, we may not have kept the records; always sensitive, dealing with children.’

  ‘We’re not dealing with a child now.’

  ‘You’re aware of the need to protect the rights of children.’

  ‘Even when they grow up to be murderers?’

  ‘Even then.’

  ***

  The day had started with a whimper more than a bang at the police station in Twickenham. Sean, always wanting to be active, had found time on his hands. Sara was in her office drafting reports, attempting to portray the investigation into the death of Gregory Chalmers in a better light than was actually the case.

  Bob Marshall had told her officially in the confines of his office the previous day that her time was running out, and unless she came up with something concrete, then he would need to take her off the case, find someone more experienced.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she had said.

  ‘Unfortunately I must,’ was Bob’s reply. He had not wanted to say it, especially to Sara, but in the office, he was a policeman. At home, and out of hours, then he could be someone else. He regretted his actions after she had sto
rmed out of the office, slamming the door hard.

  Bob had slept on the sofa that night. He did not even receive the benefit of a goodnight kiss.

  They had managed to eat breakfast together and to maintain a civil conversation before driving separately to the police station the next morning. Once in her office she finally forgave him, sorry that she had treated him so harshly when he had only been doing his job.

  Keith was up in Newcastle, probably drinking more than he should, attempting to find out who the missing woman was. Sean, from what she could see, was at a loose end. Otherwise, the office was buzzing as usual.

  ***

  Sara made two cups of coffee: one for her, the other for Bob, by way of a peace offering.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said when she placed it on his desk. She returned to her desk, planning to phone Keith. Apart from a brief call the day before, she had not heard from him. The key to the case seemed to lie in Newcastle, and Sara was anxious for news, any news, that would take them out of the current quandary. Until Ingrid Bentham made the next move, which could mean another murder, there was no way to move forward.

  Sean busied himself looking into cases of known psychotic killers. Their ability to kill at random or in an orchestrated pattern could change due to unexpected factors. He had wandered over to Sara’s office to discuss his findings when the phone call came through. Sara picked up the phone.

  ‘Egerton Road,’ she said to Sean. ‘There’s been a death.’

  Sean grabbed his jacket; Sara picked up her handbag and phone. Within ten minutes, Sean driving, they had arrived at the address. They had not needed the number; they knew exactly where they were heading.