‘We’re one step ahead of you, and frankly, your people are always pushing for an early result,’ Wallbridge said.
‘You must be used to it now,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s still irritating,’ Pickett said.
‘Sorry about that, but what can you tell us?’
‘Crudely applied. The ink used was graphite mixed with water. It was done in prison,’ Wallbridge said.
‘That’s what we thought. Are you certain?’
‘Unless he was there on a day visit and decided to get a cheap tattoo,’ Pickett said, reverting to type.
Wallbridge, a gentler man, answered straight after Pickett. ‘In prison they have problems with the inks as well as the equipment necessary, so they improvise. Graphite, they get it from a pencil, and then they crush it and mix it with water. It works well enough. It’s not the best quality, but in prison they don’t have much choice.’
‘What about colours?’ Isaac asked.
‘A pencil only comes in black. For colour, they’d need a gel roller pen, but they’d need to be careful. No metallic content or acrylic, and it has to be water soluble.’
‘And the equipment?’
‘They make their own: a motor from a play station, a biro, a bent toothbrush or a spoon, some electrical tape, and a needle.’
‘Where would they get the needle?’
‘Guitar string, sewing needle. As I said before, it’s crude, but it works.’
‘It sounds unpleasant,’ Isaac said.
‘It is,’ Wallbridge replied.
‘Does that answer your question?’ Pickett asked. The man had a disinterested look as if he wanted his office back.
‘Almost. Just one more question. Is it possible to tell which prison?’
Wallbridge looked up into the air before answering. ‘Somewhere where the smuggling’s under control, or else it would have been in colour.’
***
Isaac, back in the office, had another job for Bridget, once she was free from working with Wendy. Bridget was still the best CCTV viewing officer at Challis Street Police Station, and now there was a car to find.
Isaac spoke to Wendy. ‘Any luck?’
‘We’re accessing the cameras now,’ Wendy replied.
‘Where are you looking?’
‘The main entry points into the area. It was early, so we should be able to isolate the vehicle, assuming our source is reliable.’
‘Is it?’
‘Hard to say. The woman was vague, but she was adamant on the size and the colour. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. How about you, sir?’
‘Some success. The man had spent time in prison.’
‘That’s a lot of people.’
‘If you can identify a vehicle, as well as a registered owner, it might help to identify the body.’
‘We’ll try our best.’
‘And once Bridget is finished with you, I need her to research prison databases.’
Isaac then phoned Larry. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m checking out gangs in the area,’ Larry replied.
‘Are there many?’
‘There’s enough, mainly Jamaicans.’
‘Forensics is sure the tattoo was done in prison.’
‘Most gang members would know what the other side of prison bars looks like.’
‘The spider’s web indicates a lengthy term in jail.’
‘It could still represent a rite of passage even if it was tattooed inside.’
Isaac could only agree with his DI’s analysis. ‘It may be a gang out of the area,’ he said.
‘I know a local gang leader who’ll talk to me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve known him a long time.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘He owes me. I’ll be safe with him.’
‘Do you want me there?’
‘Not a chance. He knows me, not you. If you’re there, he’ll clam up. Mind you, you could speak to him in Jamaican.’
‘You mean English?’
‘Yes, English.’ Isaac knew what Larry meant. The gangs in London affected their own style of talking, and with Jamaicans that would mean the patois of their parents’ home country.
***
Rasta Joe, not his real name but the only name the man with the dreadlocks answered to, was friendly on meeting Larry in the pub at midday.
‘Mine’s a pint,’ the undisputed leader of his gang in Notting Hill said.
Larry knew that Rasta Joe had been born in London and that his parents were decent, upright citizens.
Larry wondered how Isaac had avoided being drawn into the gangs; he assumed his parents had been tenacious in keeping him away from their influence.
Most gang members were benign, only causing trouble when they were in a group or high on ganja. Larry knew that Rasta Joe was one tough Yardie, the colloquial Jamaican for a gang member, and he ruled with an iron fist, or a sharp blade, or, as Larry knew only too well, sometimes with a bullet.
The man had killed, would kill again, but he had been innocent of the crime for which he had been arrested. Larry had been the arresting officer when Rasta Joe had been charged with murder, although subsequent investigations had revealed that the man had been shacked up with his girlfriend that night; the evidence indisputable.
There were some in the police station who had wanted to let him be convicted, knowing full well that he had killed others before, and the streets would be better without his offensive presence. However, Larry had gone out on a limb and had stood up in court and confirmed that the man was innocent of the crime. Not that it helped the girlfriend, as the day after giving her evidence and proving Rasta Joe’s alibi, her other boyfriend shot her. For that crime, there was no alibi, and the man was serving a life sentence in prison.
‘Rasta Joe, you know about the body in Regent’s Canal?’
‘What’s it got to do with me.’
‘I never said it did.’
‘And besides, that’s not how we work. We’re peaceful, law-abiding.’
Larry had heard it before. He knew that Rasta Joe was a drug dealer, a local villain, and he ran a few women down in Paddington. Regardless, Larry needed his help, even if the man was a villain of the first order.
‘We know the dead man had served time in prison.’
‘Is it true that he had no head?’ Rasta Joe asked. He had his glass in front of him. If Larry wanted him to keep talking, it would cost another pint.
‘No arms and legs, as well.’
‘Whoever did it must have been a callous bastard.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘To cut someone up like that.’
‘Your people cut up others with knives.’
‘Not my people.’
‘Hypothetically,’ Larry said.
‘Some gangs might.’
‘But not your gang?’
‘Right-on,’ Rasta Joe replied.
‘Could the man in the canal have been a gang member?’
‘Not from around here.’
‘Why?’
‘He was white.’
‘Somewhere else?’
‘It doesn’t look to be a gang to me,’ Rasta Joe said. ‘They’d want to make sure the body wasn’t found.’
Two more pints later, and Larry was feeling queasy, having matched the man pint for pint. He phoned Isaac. ‘It seems unlikely to be gang related.’
‘I didn’t think it would be. It was worth checking,’ Isaac said.
‘Any luck with the vehicle?’
‘Not yet. Bridget and Wendy are still working on it.’
***
Wendy, her arthritis better for sitting in a warm office with Bridget, watched the videos around the area of Little Venice. The primary locations that interested them were the junction of Harrow Road and Warwick Crescent, the junction of Harrow Road and Warwick Avenue, the junction of Bloomfield Road and Westbourne Terrace Road, and the intersection of Westbourne Terrace Road and Warwick Crescent. Both W
endy and Bridget realised that they had not included all possible entries to the area, but there was not much they could do. A myriad of cameras were installed across London, but they were there for traffic flow, to catch errant speeders and cars running red lights; not to investigate a murder.
Still, the women were upbeat about the possibility of success, although it could be a couple of long days ahead.
Isaac was anxious for a result, as was Larry, who having exhausted his gangland killing theory was waiting for a new avenue of inquiry, although there was always paperwork back at the police station.
DCS Goddard kept up his regular phone calls, but so far he had kept his presence in the Homicide office to a minimum.
Bridget methodically worked her way through the video recordings. So far, she had seen several cars that matched the information received from Mrs Gregory, although they had been discounted as they had either pulled into a driveway or had transited the area.
‘What about that one?’ Wendy asked the one time that she had squinted her eyes to focus on the computer monitor. Bridget, if she had not been her friend, would have asked her to let her concentrate.
‘It’s possible,’ Bridget had to admit. A blue car could be seen at the intersection of Harrow Road and Warwick Avenue; the time was 1.42 a.m. Its colour was the same as described by the old lady, a street lamp illuminating the vehicle.
Bridget checked the junction of Harrow Road and Warwick Crescent, a distance of sixty yards. The blue car was clearly visible. Forwarding the video slowly, the car could be seen turning into Warwick Crescent.
Realising that the car represented their best possibility, Bridget looked for cameras closer to where the body had been dumped. There were none. Undaunted by the temporary setback, Bridget and Wendy continued to check. Eleven minutes later, the vehicle could be seen at the roundabout of Clifton Villas and Warwick Avenue.
‘That’s the car,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s had time to dump the body.’
‘It’s not a Toyota,’ Bridget said. ‘More likely a Hyundai.’
‘Don’t worry about that. It’s our vehicle. I’m sure of it. Any chance of a registration number?’
A traffic light camera on the junction of Edgware Road and St John’s Wood Road had picked up the number plate four minutes later, although it had taken Bridget another three hours to find it.
‘GK52 YJQ. It’s a blue Hyundai i30,’ Wendy said on the phone to Isaac.
Isaac quickly called Larry who put out an all-points warning for the vehicle. Within fifteen minutes, all police cars within London equipped with automatic number plate recognition cameras were focussed on looking for the Hyundai. The legal owner, a vicar in Maidstone, Kent, where it had been first registered, was soon contacted. ‘In my driveway at home,’ he said when the police phoned his mobile. At a religious retreat in Cornwall, he was surprised when told about his car being in London; shocked when informed that it had probably been involved in a serious crime. Larry did not tell him that it had transported a dismembered body in the boot.
One hour later, the vehicle was pulled over by a police car, the driver was taken into custody, the vehicle sent to Forensics.
After a short period in the cells at a police station in Surbiton to the south of the city, the driver was transferred in handcuffs to Challis Street.
Vicenzo Pinto, a short man wearing a leather jacket, preferred to be called Vince. Isaac read him his rights in the interview room and offered him legal aid and a free lawyer, which he declined. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he said.
Both Isaac and Larry were confident they had their man, although his mild-mannered appearance and his disarming politeness belied a man capable of mutilating a body.
‘On the night of the twenty-ninth of October at approximately 1.48 a.m. in the morning, you drove up Warwick Crescent in Little Venice,’ Isaac said.
‘Not me, DCI.’ The man who was close to being charged with murder sat on his chair with a broad smile.
‘We have photographic evidence that a blue Hyundai i30, registration GK52 YJQ, did travel along Harrow Road and turn into Warwick Crescent.’
‘I’ve never been to Little Venice. The big one, yes, many times.’
‘This is a serious matter,’ Larry said. ‘The vehicle you were driving had been stolen. Also, subject to Forensics confirming it, the body of a male between the ages of thirty and thirty-nine was in the boot of the car. We have been told that there are traces of blood.’
‘I bought the car,’ Pinto replied.
A knock on the door. Bridget entered. ‘Gordon Windsor is on the phone,’ she said.
Isaac paused the interview and left the room with Larry.
‘Confirmed?’ Isaac asked on the phone.
‘It’s the same blood group. Subject to DNA, I’m almost one hundred per cent sure that you have the right vehicle.’
Isaac and Larry re-entered the interview room.
‘We have confirmation that the vehicle you were apprehended in did transport the dismembered body of an adult male. You do realise what this means?’
‘I didn’t know what it was.’
‘Were you curious?’
‘I had to do it.’
‘Unless you are able to convince us that you did not kill the man or dismember him, then I will be charging you with murder. You do understand what this means?’
‘I understand, but I didn’t kill him.’
‘Then why did you put the body in the canal.’
‘I had to, or else it would have been me.’
‘They would have killed you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you ready to give a written statement?’
‘I need a lawyer.’
‘Legal aid?’
‘I’ve got no money.’
Isaac adjourned the interview for two hours while a lawyer was found. Pinto was returned to the cells. A pizza was delivered to him. His smile had disappeared.
***
Bridget and Wendy were basking in the glory of a personal phone call from Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard to each of them.
‘Good work,’ Isaac said when they walked in.
‘Something else, sir?’ Bridget asked.
‘We need to know the identity of the body.’
‘The man in the cells?’ Wendy asked. ‘Won’t he tell you?’
‘He’s not the killer,’ Isaac said.
‘He may still know who he was.’
‘We need to know the history of the dead man. We know that the spider’s web tattoo on the man’s shoulder was done in prison. The ink was graphite. What we need to know, assuming our man down below doesn’t, is which prison and who he was, as well as known associates.’
‘Any ideas how we should do this, sir?’ Bridget asked.
‘Two suggestions: prisons that maintain a rigid control on smuggling, and amateur tattooists who are locked up.’
‘Why the interest in smuggling?’ Wendy asked.
‘The tattoo is black, which indicates that either the man did not want colour or they were unable to smuggle it in. Check for confiscated special tattoo inks or gel roller pens. It’s a long shot, but prison records are extensive. An amateur tattooist, strictly illegal but probably known by the authorities, would have needed to construct a tattoo pen. Yet again, not difficult, but the parts would need to be sourced.’
Chapter 5
At 2.30 p.m. the interview with Vicenzo Pinto, alias Vince, resumed. Katrina Hatcher, his lawyer, had spent one hour with her client briefing him on his rights. She had also been given the file documenting his arrest, and the murder enquiry to date.
‘Vicenzo Pinto, are you ready to make a statement?’ Isaac asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I have a written statement from my client,’ Katrina Hatcher said. ‘I would like it added to the records.’ Isaac noted that she was a smartly-dressed woman, obviously sharp as a tack, and well in control of the situation.
‘Please continue,’ Isaac said.
&nb
sp; ‘My name is Vicenzo Pinto. My date of birth is the 3rd July 1975, and I was born in Verona, Italy. I came to England in 1977 with my parents. I am innocent of all crimes. I admit placing an item in Regent’s Canal. I was unaware as to what it was as it was dark. I was following instructions.
‘The car, which you tell me was stolen, was given to me for that job. I did not look in the boot before arriving in Little Venice. At Little Venice, I removed the package, carried it down to the water’s edge under the bridge, opened the plastic bag, and released the contents. I then returned to the car and left. That is the end of my statement.’
Isaac looked at the lawyer. ‘It won’t hold up in a Court of Law.’
‘My client has made a preliminary statement to confirm his innocence. He is open to further questioning, but let me remind you that he is innocent until proven guilty.’
‘Your client is about to be charged as an accessory to murder. I hope that has been explained to him.’
‘My client will make a full disclosure of all that he knows.’
Isaac once again focussed his eyes on Pinto. ‘You are aware of the seriousness of this?’
Larry sat quietly to Isaac’s side. He could see that his DCI was trying to break through Pinto’s smugness.
‘I am aware,’ Pinto replied sombrely.
Isaac continued. ‘On the night of the twenty-ninth you dumped the torso of a man in Regent’s Canal.’
‘I never knew what it was.’
‘What else could it be?’ Larry said, his tone less friendly than Isaac’s. The lawyer said nothing, only observed and listened.
‘I had to do it,’ Pinto said.
‘Why?’
‘They’ll kill me if I tell you.’
‘And if you don’t, how many years in prison?’ Isaac posed a rhetorical question. ‘Ten years as an accessory. And if the jury believes you were involved in the murder, then it’s life. Do you understand?’
‘Prison is better than what they’ll do to me.’
‘Are you saying that you would rather spend the rest of your life in jail.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 87