DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You’re framing me.’

  ‘There are only two alternatives for you,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What are they?’ O’Shaughnessy asked.

  ‘I suggest caution in what you ask,’ Galbraith said, directing a look at the man sitting alongside him.

  ‘Why? I’m not guilty.’ From what Isaac could see, this apparently intelligent man was reverting to type, criminal type, in denying everything.

  ‘Today, you held off the police with a loaded weapon. Do you deny this?’

  ‘I’d drunk a couple of beers. They caught me at a bad time.’

  ‘An innocent man would have come down to this station and answered all questions. I put it to you that you are a guilty man and you know it. This posturing of yours in this room is non-productive. Mr Shaughnessy, you are going to jail for the murders of Dougal Stewart and Rodrigo Fuentes.’

  ‘I never killed him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That Brazilian.’

  ‘Are you admitting that you were a major player in the distribution of large quantities of illegal drugs?’

  ‘I’m admitting to nothing.’

  ‘DCI, how much longer is this going to continue?’ Galbraith asked.

  ‘Until your client starts telling the truth.’

  ‘My client has said all that he can on this matter. He is innocent of all crimes.’

  ‘He can deny them,’ Larry said, ‘but we’ve got enough proof to put him away for the next fifteen to twenty years.’

  ‘Five, ten, fifteen, what difference does it make?’ O’Shaughnessy said.

  ‘Why?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Cancer, that’s why. I’d rather spend my last few years enjoying myself, but if the police are determined to lock me up for a crime I didn’t commit…’

  ‘But you did commit these crimes. We have enough proof. Your continuing procrastination will serve no purpose.’

  Galbraith could see that the interview was not going well. ‘Could we have a break, say twenty minutes?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Isaac replied.

  ***

  ‘Devlin, I can’t defend you here,’ Galbraith said after Isaac and Larry had left the interview room.

  ‘I’ll not grass.’

  ‘Not even to save yourself?’

  ‘They’re right. They’ve got me fair and square. Whatever I say, I’ll be convicted.’

  ‘What about Steve Walters?’ Galbraith asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Up north somewhere.’

  ‘You’ve had no contact?’

  ‘He’s phoned me once or twice, but he’s staying where he is. I can’t blame him. I should have taken what money I had and made a run for it.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘Greed, I suppose. I knew Alex Hughenden had plenty and I thought some of it would be better in my pocket. He’s always played fair by me, and I knew he’d agree.’

  ‘You could have phoned him.’

  ‘I wanted to see the house. For once in my miserable life, I was living well there.’

  ‘Are you going to continue to maintain your innocence?’

  ‘I’ll not grass, especially not on Alex.’

  ‘Then you will not walk on the street as a free man again.’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ***

  Once the two police officers had returned, Galbraith made a statement on his client’s behalf. ‘My client maintains his innocence of all charges and will strenuously defend himself in a Court of Law. He will not speak further on these matters and will devote his time to his defence.’

  Isaac had hoped for more, but if the man intended to remain silent, then so be it. He would at least stand trial for murder, with a one hundred per cent certainty of conviction.

  To Isaac, he and his team had solved the murder of the man whose torso had been found in Regent’s Canal. Richard Goddard was elated and phoned Isaac to offer his congratulations.

  ‘There’s still Pinto and Fuentes,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You’ve already stated that it’ll be hard to pin Fuentes’ murder onto O’Shaughnessy.’

  ‘He killed him; I’m certain of it.’

  ‘At least the man’s inside for one murder. Whether you prove Fuentes’ murder or not, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And there’s Pinto’s.’

  ‘You’ve no proof.’

  ‘His body’s got to be somewhere,’ Isaac said. He still wanted O’Shaughnessy to crack and to tell him where Pinto was and how the drug syndicate operated, but he knew that could wait.

  ***

  Len Donaldson may have been an expert on illicit drugs, but he knew nothing about jewellery. Neither did Wendy Gladstone, who had accompanied him on the Homicide team’s behalf. Both had to admit that Alex Hughenden, regardless of what he might be, knew the value of silver and gold. The shop was stocked with the most exquisite items at prices neither of the two moderately paid police officers could afford. The jewellery that Wendy had so admired in the shop window on a previous occasion was locked in a safe at the rear of the shop.

  Hughenden, when he realised that the search was going ahead, had given the police all assistance, including the combinations to the safes and how to disable the alarm, which was as well as the police would have still entered and opened the safes, although it would have taken longer.

  ‘I don’t want you messing up my shop the same as you damaged my house,’ Hughenden said. He was allowed to be present while the search was being conducted, but not to interfere.

  ‘It’ll be fixed,’ Donaldson said. He had seen the house and had been appalled at the mess left by the police. Someone was going to pay, he knew that, but they had apprehended a murderer, and now he had the heat on the shop owner. Not that it showed as Hughenden was calm, assisting where he could, advising on what each item in his store cost: its silver mark, how many carats, its history, and most importantly, where he had bought it and for how much.

  ‘We’ll not find anything,’ Donaldson said. He had brought a jewellery expert with him to validate whatever Hughenden said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Wendy asked. She was attempting to focus on the work in hand, but she was also bedazzled by such beauty.

  ‘He’s a meticulous man. His records will be the same.’

  ‘Forged?’

  ‘Some may be.’

  ‘Are you saying we need his records checked by a forgery expert?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘We need something on this man,’ Donaldson said. ‘He’s the key to the drug trafficking, I’m sure of it, but he’s not going to crack. Not unless we have a lever.’

  ‘He may know about Fuentes and Pinto.’

  ‘Do you know how many people die each year in England because of people like Hughenden and O’Shaughnessy?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘A lot more than the three deaths we’re dealing with at Challis Street.’

  ‘Over two thousand five hundred last year. That’s three times the European average.’

  ‘It puts it into perspective,’ Wendy admitted.

  ‘The deaths of a few criminals are nothing compared to the harm they cause to society. Frankly, I’m not bothered with Dougal Stewart, not even your Vicenzo Pinto, or the Brazilian, if their deaths lead us to whoever’s running this syndicate.’

  ‘I can understand your sentiments. I had a friend whose son became addicted. It killed him in the end.’ Wendy reflected on her oldest son who for a while had smoked marijuana.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum. It’s harmless, no worse than beer,’ he’d said.

  Thankfully, in his case, it had only been a passing fad, and he soon migrated back to beer, although at the time his coming home drunk had caused her sleepless nights.

  The jewellery expert could only praise the quality of the items in the shop. ‘Nothing to note here,’ he told Donaldson and Wendy. ‘Excellent quality.’

  ‘Is any of it stolen?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘The
well-heeled don’t always report it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Unless it has special significance, they’ll not bother. And most people inflate the price for insurance.’

  ‘But for precious items, they’d need to be valued,’ Wendy said.

  ‘A valuation at retail prices, which means the owner would be unlikely to receive that much if they sold them on the open market. They’d be forced to sell through a place like this, and they want their commission.’

  ‘You’d better take the records,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I’ll have them checked out by Fraud and Forgery,’ Donaldson replied. He informed Hughenden, who maintained his air of infallibility.

  The search had taken three hours, and Len Donaldson realised he was no nearer to solving his case. Wendy returned to Challis Street Police Station.

  Both knew there was a lot more work before their respective cases could be closed.

  ***

  Wayne Norman was a smart arse, always on the periphery of crime. He was a thin young man of twenty-two, and whereas he should be forging a career in the city or in trade, he was doing neither. Not that either option interested him anyway. He was what society would deem a useless layabout. A definition his hard-working mother would only concur with.

  ‘Find yourself a job,’ she had said the previous night in the flat that they called home, although others would call it a slum. The woman worked two jobs to pay the rent and to put food on the table, and a twenty-two-year-old child who bled her dry emotionally and financially was not something she needed. She had reasoned with him, even kicked him out a few times, but after a week he had come back reeking of living on the street, dossing down where he could, sleeping in a charity clothing bin or down an alley.

  He was her son and she could not kick him out again, even if she did not love him the way a mother should love a child.

  ‘Jobs are for fools,’ Wayne Norman would always reply. ‘Look at you, working day and night for a pittance.’

  ‘And what about you?’ she’d ask.

  ‘I get by.’ And get by he did with petty thieving: handbags and mobile phones mainly.

  For once, he had left the flat early. He wandered down Acklam Road, not with any purpose, only looking to cause mischief: an unlocked car where the owner had left it the night before when he had come home drunk, a parcel left on a doorstep, some clothing hanging on a line. It was not often he walked along that road, and the sight of a run-down garage off to the railway side of the road intrigued him. He moved closer, tested the lock, looked around him. It was still early, and it was cold. He pulled at the lock, and it came away from the wooden door. He entered, once again checking to see no one was watching. Apart from some old boxes and car parts, there was nothing of interest except for an old freezer in the corner. He opened it, hoping to find something of value, something he could sell down the road, no questions asked.

  He moved the ice that had formed with a metal rod that he found in the garage. Wayne Norman, a lazy man, jumped back, falling over as he rapidly retreated from the garage. A local man walking his dog saw him exit. ‘What are you doing in there?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a …’ Norman’s only reply as he ran down the road.

  The old man looked inside the garage. He took one look in the freezer and made a phone call.

  The team at Challis Street were alerted, and within minutes were in the car, moving towards the location. They brought a couple of uniforms to secure the area.

  Isaac, usually office bound, led the team into the garage. They had been forewarned of what was inside and had put on foot protectors and gloves. They kept to one side of the garage, as there were clearly footprints in the middle. Isaac reached the freezer and lifted the lid.

  ‘Vicenzo Pinto, I presume,’ he said in an attempt at levity, emulating the immortal lines of Henry Stanley when he first met Dr Livingstone in remotest Africa in an earlier century.

  One phone call from Larry, and Gordon Windsor and his team of investigators were on the way. The three police officers retreated from the garage. The curious onlookers were starting to gather. A collection of police cars and police officers was not an everyday occurrence, although there was a good collection of third rate rogues and villains who lived nearby. However, Isaac did not believe any of them were responsible. He knew who had put the body there, and he was in custody for one murder. Another one would not faze O’Shaughnessy, although it may Alex Hughenden. Isaac was determined to nail the man. He didn’t believe him responsible for the death of Dougal Stewart or of this victim, almost certainly Vicenzo Pinto – the clothes matched his parents’ description from the day he was last seen – but Hughenden was instrumental in them, had possibly given the instructions for two men’s deaths, possibly a third with Rodrigo Fuentes.

  Once Pinto’s cause of death was confirmed, Isaac intended to force Hughenden to speak. The evidence, although not conclusive, was adding up, and was enough at least to charge the jewellery shop owner as an accessory to murder. He knew Galbraith would try to wriggle his client out of a conviction, but it was enough to hold the man in the cells at the police station.

  Chapter 17

  It only took Gordon Windsor and his team one hour before he was able to give a verbal report. ‘It’s Pinto,’ he said.

  ‘Is the body intact?’ Isaac asked over the phone from his office.

  ‘Yes. He was stabbed in the chest.’

  ‘Is that the cause of death?’

  ‘Pathology will need to confirm, but it seems conclusive to me. He’s only been in the freezer for a short time. He’s still recognisable. DNA checks will confirm it’s him, as well as identification by a relative.’

  ‘When can that be done?’

  ‘We’ll take the body to the pathologist in the next couple of hours. Give it another few hours for him to defrost, and it should be fine.’

  ‘I’ll make it for five this afternoon,’ Isaac said. ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘O’Shaughnessy’s.’

  ‘Any sign of Hughenden’s?’

  ‘None. Just O’Shaughnessy’s, although my people will stay on and check further. It looks as though Pinto was dead when he was brought here.’

  ‘We could ask the neighbours if they saw anything.’

  ‘Around here? Are you joking? They’re not the friendliest, and besides, it’s clear who put him in the freezer.’

  Isaac ended the phone call. Wendy and Larry were in the office. ‘Wendy, a job for you,’ he said.

  ‘The worst job for a police officer: telling the next of kin their loved one is dead,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It’s either you or a local police officer where they live.’

  ‘I’ll do it, and besides, you need them for an identification. I’ll bring back one of his parents with me.’

  ‘Larry, check out if anyone saw anything.’

  ‘I’ll get some uniforms to do it. We’ll need to talk to O’Shaughnessy again.’

  ‘I’ll phone up Galbraith,’ Isaac said.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you have some unusual friends,’ Larry said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Rasta Joe and Galbraith.’

  ‘Believe me, neither are friends. I grew up with them: one of us became a criminal, another a smart-arse lawyer, and the other a police officer.’

  ‘An excellent police officer,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think that is how Commissioner Davies would refer to me.’

  ‘Then he’s a damn fool.’

  ***

  Devlin O’Shaughnessy, even after time in the cells, was no more agreeable than the previous time. Adam Galbraith was present. Larry and Isaac represented the police.

  ‘We’ve found Vicenzo Pinto,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What’s that to me?’ O’Shaughnessy replied.

  ‘It seems you have a preference for freezing your murder victims.’

  ‘I’ve killed no one, so don’t try and put his death on me.’


  ‘We’ll make sure you’re convicted for the death of Dougal Stewart first. If you worm your way out of that, we’ll then charge you with Pinto’s death.’

  ‘Do what you want. I’ll not be around to see it.’

  ‘Why? Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘Galbraith will get me out.’

  ‘He’s that good, is he?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He said you went to school with him.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Then you know he’s a smart man. He’ll deal with your charging me. Down on your arrest quota this month, are you?’

  Isaac could see that the man had nothing to lose and was baiting him.

  ‘My client is innocent of all crimes,’ Galbraith finally spoke after his client had said his piece.

  ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy will have his day in court,’ Isaac said. ‘How he’s going to wriggle out of either murder when his fingerprints are everywhere is hard to see.’

  ‘You do know Acklam Road?’ Larry asked O’Shaughnessy.

  ‘I drive down it sometimes,’ O’Shaughnessy answered in a vague, disinterested manner. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Do you own or lease a garage there?’

  ‘Not likely. The bastards will steal anything up there.’

  ‘Then why did you leave Pinto in a freezer in one of the garages.’

  ‘That is a prejudiced question,’ Galbraith said. ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy does not need to answer.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t,’ Isaac said, ‘but his fingerprints are all over the place, and there are shoe prints as well. We’re aiming to match them with footwear that Mr O’Shaughnessy owns. He may have disposed of the bloodied footwear from murdering Pinto, but we’ve got all the records we need. Also, there are tyre marks in the driveway. We will be checking them as well. One way or the other, regardless of whether your client wishes to talk, we’ve got him. You know that.’

  Galbraith sat still, looking Isaac straight in the eyes. He’s got enough evidence, he thought.

  ‘I’ll answer,’ O’Shaughnessy said. ‘Three words, maybe four. I’ve got nothing more to say.’