DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Good God, man. How can I protect you?’

  The man’s interested in his own future, not in justice, Isaac thought.

  Wendy, sensing the mood in Isaac’s office, kept her distance. She had news to tell him, but it could wait.

  ‘What are you doing to find Pinto?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘We have an APW out for him.’

  ‘What are they looking for, the man or a body?’

  ‘Both. Unless confirmed otherwise, we’ll focus on both.’

  ‘And if he’s dead?’

  ‘We’re back to square one.’

  ‘This Jamaican friend of yours, any help?’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘What’s he got to say?’

  ‘Pinto’s dead. Another drug dealer is also probably dead.’

  ‘They’re not corpses down the morgue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I need this wrapped up,’ Goddard said before storming out of the office.

  ‘Rough, sir?’ Wendy asked when she came into Isaac’s office.

  ‘All the time,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘He’s under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘So are we. Anyway, what do you have?’

  ‘A trace on O’Shaughnessy’s phone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘O’Shaughnessy’s phone call to Rasta Joe was made five days after DI Hill intended to arrest him.’

  ‘Where was the call made?’

  ‘Local.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘Bayswater. Only accurate to within fifty metres.’

  ‘A needle in a haystack,’ Isaac said.

  ‘There are literally hundreds of potential locations, and tens of thousands of people.’

  ‘Any more calls from O’Shaughnessy’s number?’

  ‘We’re going through them now. He’s not made any calls for the last few days.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘He’s using another phone.’

  ‘Trace all his phone calls; see if you can find any reference to Pinto. Also, any phone calls to his boss.’

  ‘A long night for Bridget and I,’ Wendy said.

  ‘A long night for all of us,’ Isaac replied, knowing full well that the murder of Dougal Stewart, the assumed murder of Vicenzo Pinto, were not to be the last.

  ***

  Vicenzo Pinto, strung up as if he was a piece of meat, was barely conscious. The savage beating had almost killed him. ‘Please, let me go. I never told them anything.’

  ‘So how did they find out my address?’ an angry Devlin O’Shaughnessy said.

  Outside it was late, and Pinto did not know where he was, although it was only four miles from the sanctity of his parents’ house. He had not enjoyed himself there, what with his mother fussing and his father lecturing about how he had wasted his life. Pinto, if he had been in a position to contemplate it, would have said that his father was a right one to talk, knowing his father’s predilection for gambling in his youth.

  Steve Walters, Devlin’s offsider, stood to one side of Pinto. ‘You remember what we did to Dave?’

  ‘Please. I told them nothing.’

  ‘How come you’re out on bail?’

  ‘My lawyer, she was excellent.’

  ‘I would have said she was a miracle worker,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘I rob a supermarket, and I’m slammed inside for ten years, and there’s no bail for me. Either your lawyer’s screwing the black police inspector or you’ve done a deal.’

  ‘I swear that I’ve not made a deal,’ Pinto said. The derelict warehouse was cold and miserable, even O’Shaughnessy and Walters would admit that, but they had the benefit of clothes; Pinto did not.

  ‘We want the full story.’ Walters, a shorter man than his dismembering colleague, worked out at a gym in Notting Hill. His muscles bulged under his shirt.

  ‘I did nothing,’ Pinto panted. His feet were barely touching the ground, his arms were stretched, his wrists securely bound. ‘They had nothing on me.’

  ‘Their Forensics department took the car we gave you apart.’

  ‘They knew about Dave and that I threw him in the canal.’

  ‘Then why release you?’

  ‘I’m still charged with drug trafficking and the illegal disposal of a body.’

  ‘No one gets bail for drug trafficking,’ O’Shaughnessy said, punching his fist into the desperate man’s chest.

  ‘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’Shaughnessy, 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.