DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘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.

  The fourth man had come along at the right time with his business plan. ‘Fifty million pounds for each of us the first year. By the second year, it should be up to eighty million.’

  Lord Allerton, the third man in the quartet, had not been successful in life. There was the stately home, the wife and family, his position in society, and enough money to survive as long as they let in the tourists at the weekend to gawp at them. He had joined an investment bank on leaving school; his title had ensured a good salary, but he had not been successful. A weakness in mathematics meant that deal after deal went wrong. He had tried his hand at writing a history of the family, tracing it back for eight centuries, but the book had been poorly received. His father had been a war hero, his grandfather an admiral, but what had he achieved? Nothing, and it irked him.

  The fourth man’s proposal, abhorrent as it was, promised untold wealth for little effort on his part. The peer knew that he was an honest man, but he had seen enough honest men with little to show. He threw his hand in as well.

  The fourth man outlined the details. Each of the four would put in one million pounds. He, utilising his criminal connections, would do the rest. The other three knew that he had embraced crime as a profession, white-collar crime, and he had been successful. His name was not well known, not even to those who worked for him, nor to the criminal community in general, and very few had met him.

  He reflected after listening in on the phone conversation of Hughenden, O’Shaughnessy, and Walters that one man did. He knew that Alex Hughenden had done a good job, and he did not have anyone to replace him, not yet, but the man was to be interviewed by the police, and what if he grassed, the same as Pinto? What then? Hughenden did not know his name, but it would not take a competent police officer long to find him. He knew what he had to do.

  ***

  For a week there had been no sign of police activity. It was as if the heat was off. Devlin O’Shaughnessy knew only too well the crimes he had committed; he was after all an intelligent man who had been slammed up in prison for a crime he did not commit, although there were plenty that he had. It had seemed at the time that the police wanted him behind bars, and if they couldn’t get him for one crime, they’d get him for another.

  A friend of his in Bayswater had told him that no police had been seen close to where he had lived. O’Shaughnessy, who had become interested in art in part due to the influence of Alex Hughenden, in part due to his innate desire to better himself, needed to visit his home.

  After two weeks of living out of a suitcase, moving every few days just in case, he needed to reacquaint himself with his personal belongings. He knew the risk. Steve Walters, his offsider and a man who had no interest in the better things of life, thought he was crazy and told him so plainly enough.

  ‘You’ll never understand,’ O’Shaughnessy said, as he drank a pint of beer with Walters.

  ‘You’re in for life if they catch you.’ Walters, not an educated man, knew the realities.

  O’Shaughnessy and Walters had met a year ago. A chance meeting, although fortuitous for all three. Hughenden, own
er of a small shop in Notting Hill trading in antique jewellery, knew when the two men had entered his shop by the rear door that he could use them. Hughenden, respectable and beyond reproach at the front door; crooked at the back door.

  A small lane by which those who had stolen from the rich to give to the poor, in that case Hughenden, had increased his wealth.

  Those who came in the front door paid well; he made sure of that, but they were always arguing over the price and the quality and the state of their finances. Little did they know that after Hughenden had reworked what others had stolen, those items often ended up in the front of the building.

  He had taken great pride when one tiresome woman had walked out of the shop thinking that she had purchased a bargain. Only five thousand pounds, she thought.

  Hughenden, who knew her through the church, could only smile, knowing full well that what she had just purchased had been stolen from her six months previously and extensively reworked. Hughenden knew he was a master of his trade, and in the years that the store had been open, he had only been visited by the police once. And that was not about stolen goods, at least not his, just assistance in appraising a gold bracelet that had been found under the floorboards in the home of a thief now in custody.

  O’Shaughnessy had been the easiest to win over, as Hughenden realised that notwithstanding his heavily-tattooed appearance, he was a man who appreciated the finer things in life. That was why he had let the ex-prisoner stay in one of his investment properties. Hughenden knew that it would be safe. Walters, strictly criminal class, had given him concern initially, until O’Shaughnessy, who had spent many a night drinking with him, told Hughenden that he trusted the man.

  ‘He’s rough round the edges, but apart from fancying himself with the women, we can trust him,’ O’Shaughnessy had said.

  ‘If you vouch for him,’ Hughenden’s reply.

  ‘Outline the plan,’ O’Shaughnessy asked.

  The drug trade, especially in heroin and cocaine, was burgeoning, and they intended to take control of their part of the city. Hughenden had outlined the plan in all its simplicity: make sure we’re the only supplier.

  O’Shaughnessy liked a simple plan, and he liked violence and Bach and expensive paintings.

  ‘You’ve no aversion to dealing with anyone who interferes?’ Hughenden asked.

  ‘None,’ O’Shaughnessy replied, which had not been entirely truthful as he had not killed a man in cold blood before, expect for a Taliban in Afghanistan when he had been a soldier, but that didn’t count. The tribesman had been standing in front of him with a Kalashnikov pointing at him.

  O’Shaughnessy knew that an innocent man had died when he had been involved in an attack on a supermarket to steal that night’s takings. It had been close to Christmas, and the standard procedure of emptying the tills and transferring the money with adequate security was not in place.

  Then, he knew that it had been a complicated plan: wait until you get the signal, check that the store’s security is distracted, and there are no customers close to the till. Then check and check and when you’re ready, the four of you go in and empty all the cash registers, and remember the safe in the manager’s office. It’s bound to be full of money.

  An old-time criminal had meant well when he put the plan together, making the four that were to rush the store practise over and over again, even setting up desks in the room where they met to simulate the supermarket checkouts. Even at the time, O’Shaughnessy thought it elaborate. He would have just waited till they transferred the money to a security van later that night. Then they could have rushed the guards carrying the money and forced them to the ground, or smashed them around the head with a cosh. But the old-time criminal had won out. His plan was to be implemented.

  The men waited for the right moment that fateful night. They entered full of bravado, only to be spotted by the manager of the store. ‘Stop. I’ve called the police.’

  One of the other three raised his rifle and pointed it at the man. The manager kept coming forward; the gun man, a timid youth of nineteen, pulled the trigger. The manager fell to the ground, dead.

  In the pandemonium, all four of the robbers rushed for the exit. O’Shaughnessy remembered tripping and two men holding him down until the police arrived. He had not fired the shot, but he was guilty by association. A ten-year sentence, although he was out sooner, had curtailed his activities. No, he thought, a simple plan works better.

  Chapter 11

  A dredging boat was not how Duncan Fogarty had imagined his life at sea. He had dreamed of sailing the seven seas aboard his own yacht, or a life with the merchant navy, but life takes people down different paths.

  He had sailed when he was young, a small single sail craft he had constructed as a school project. He had even crewed on a couple of trips across the Atlantic on fifty-foot yachts, but he was not a charming man, quite the opposite, and he did not make friends easily. He had tried the merchant navy, officer class, but they needed academic qualifications, not a desire to see the world, and Fogarty knew he was not bright. In fact, that was his only redeeming feature: his ability to recognise the truth of what he was.

  He had always lived near to the River Thames, and the advert to work on a boat that plied the Thames, dredging the bottom, aiming to maintain the navigation channels, seemed his best hope. He applied, was accepted, and started work. That was seven years ago, and now he was the captain that he had always longed to be.

  Normally it was silt and the rubbish of society that they brought up, even the occasional bomb from the last war.

  ‘What the –?’ one of Fogarty’s team shouted as they made their daily run down the river. ‘Stop the dredge!’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Fogarty shouted back.

  ‘You’d better come and have a look.’

  Fogarty took one look and called the police.

  Isaac Cook and his DI boarded the boat at East India Docks. They had only received notice that there was something that may be of interest late in the day. The vessel was impounded as a crime scene, with Fogarty complaining that he wasn’t paid to work extra hours.

  The local DI who had attended first, and aware of the torso in Regent’s Canal, had phoned Isaac after eliminating all other possibilities.

  Isaac had walked down the gangway resplendent in a new suit and a white shirt with a tie.

  ‘I hope you brought some old clothes,’ Fogarty said.

  ‘I’ve protective gear,’ Isaac replied. The stench was noticeable, and he held a handkerchief to his nose.

  ‘You get used to it.’

  Isaac was sure he never would, but the dirty, smelly boat had something of interest.

  An officer from the local station introduced himself. ‘It looks like one of yours,’ he said.

  Isaac and Larry walked across the deck of the boat and peered under a tarpaulin. Isaac walked away and phoned Gordon Windsor. ‘You’re in for a long night,’ he said.

  ‘The one night of the week when I wanted to get off early,’ Windsor’s reply.

  ‘Not tonight. There’s not much for you to work with, but I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Pinto?’

  ‘Judging from what I can see, I don’t believe it is.’

  ‘Very well. Give me ninety minutes to round up the team.’

  ***

  Crime Scene Examiner Windsor arrived within the hour, even though he had driven through the centre of London. Grant Meston, his principal CSI, accompanied him. Some of the team had brought floodlights as it was dark.

  Once the two crime scene men were kitted up, they walked down the gangway and over to where the body was.

  ‘Why don’t you think it’s Pinto?’ Windsor asked as he peered at the body.

  ‘It looks like it’s been in the water for a long time,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘I don’t know how you could tell that from what remains.’

  Windsor moved closer to the body, carefully removing the rubbish and silt that surrounded i
t. Grant Meston took photos of the scene. ‘Not very pleasant, is it?’ Windsor said. His voice gave no indication of emotion about what lay in front of him.

  ‘What are your thoughts?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘You’re a bit premature.’

  ‘I just need to know who it may be.’

  ‘I’ll not be able to tell you that here.’

  ‘There are two possibilities: Rodrigo Fuentes or Vicenzo Pinto.’

  ‘It could be either,’ Windsor said as he carefully continued to expose the body.

  ‘Is the head there?’ Larry asked.

  ‘What remains of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The fish and the crabs have been at it, and I’m sure this dredger is none too fussy in bringing up everything pristine.’

  ‘Arms, legs?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It’s a complete body, but unrecognisable. Have you noticed the legs?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘What’s left of one still has a chain around its ankle. This person was murdered, and they intended the body to remain undiscovered. If the dredger hadn’t found it, it would have not existed in a few months’ time. Even now, there is precious little to go on. Have you noticed the maceration of the skin, the exposed bone?’

  Isaac moved closer to the body. He felt bile in his throat, the need to vomit. He backed away and cleared his throat. ‘How will you identify it?’

  ‘DNA. There’s no other way.’

  ‘Are you able to give a cause of death?’

  ‘With the body in this condition, it’s almost impossible, although a chain around one ankle is fairly conclusive that it was weighted and thrown in.’

  ‘Are you certain it’s male?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Pathology will confirm, but I’d say so.’

  ***

  Alex Hughenden had prepared well for his visit to Challis Street Police Station. Outwardly he portrayed a prosperous and pious man. It was those aspects of his character that he intended to show when he met DCI Cook.