DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Allerton said. ‘Give me sixty minutes.’

  ‘Give me ninety,’ Fortescue said. He still had unfinished business with the mistress.

  ***

  Len Donaldson was at Challis Street Police Station. Allerton was due soon. Isaac called a meeting in his office. ‘What do we have on Allerton?’ he asked.

  ‘He inherited the title on the death of his father,’ Bridget said. ‘He’s married with two children. Apart from that, there’s not a lot to tell you.’

  ‘There must be more. A peer of the realm.’

  ‘There’s plenty, but it’s all good. There were some positions in the city when he was younger, but on inheriting the title and the stately home, he located there. There’s no dirt on the man, and I’ve found no information regarding his movements. From all reports, he seems to be a decent man.’

  ‘Yet he’s willing to come in here and confess to being a leading figure in a drug syndicate. It makes no sense,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It does,’ Donaldson said. ‘We’ve never been able to get a handle on its leadership. We’ve focussed on known criminals, whereas Allerton has no record of crime, which means the others, assuming there are others, may not either.’

  ‘Schooling, financial status. Anything there?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve checked in Burke’s Peerage. He attended Eton College,’ Bridget said.

  With little more to say, the team went back to their desks. Larry worked on some reports that he needed to prepare. Bridget continued to research Allerton, and Wendy sat close to Bridget watching what she was doing. Everyone was on tenterhooks awaiting the arrival of Lord Allerton.

  Len Donaldson and Isaac sat in Isaac’s office discussing the case. Both men knew it was going to be a long night.

  ‘Could this man be capable of pulling off an operation of this magnitude?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I can’t see how,’ Donaldson said, ‘but then who would? Typically, we’d be looking at the major criminals, the overseas crime gangs, but this time we’ve been baffled.’

  ‘If it was so successful why didn’t other crime organisations aim to take it over?’

  ‘They may have, but if everyone, including the other criminals, were making money, then maybe they were left alone.’

  ‘You believe they were paid off?’

  ‘Someone had to be supplying the drugs in Europe.’

  ‘Any luck finding out who they are?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We know who they are.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bratva, the Russian Mafia in Moscow. They’re shipping large quantities of heroin out of Afghanistan. And then there are some Albanians who are trafficking as well, although they’re small fry compared to the Russians.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The Albanians keep a low profile. If you want vicious bastards, try the Bratva. The Albanians know this, and they’re careful not to tread on anyone’s toes.’

  ‘Allerton and his people have been sourcing from these two groups?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘If the syndicate took enough from the Russians, they’d make sure there was no competition.’

  ***

  Miles Fortescue was not pleased to see the other three at his place. He had always regarded it as his sanctuary away from the rigours of public life and from his wife. He had to admit that she had played her part in the intervening years, presenting herself as the dutiful wife of a politician. To most people, or those who were interested, he and his wife were the perfect blend of political duty and personal unity. The three who were now in his house, an elegant terrace not far from Westminster, were under no illusion. The smell of the mistress’s perfume was still apparent, and the politician had been looking forward to more of her time.

  ‘Where is she?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘She’s not staying around for you to see,’ Fortescue said. He failed to mention that she was married as well, and her privacy was paramount.

  ‘Miles's peccadillos are not important, are they?’ Keith said.

  ‘Not really,’ Griffiths agreed.

  ‘Allerton, what is it with the police?’ Keith asked. The man being questioned sat on a stool in the kitchen. He was downcast and pale in the face.

  ‘You should not have killed that man.’

  ‘I’ve never killed anyone. I told you there were some loose ends to be dealt with. From what I could see at our last meeting, all three of you were in agreement.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘There are no buts. If you play with the big boys, you have to learn to play by their rules.’

  ‘Then I was wrong to go in with you,’ Allerton said.

  ‘And wrong to accept all the money I put your way. I assume your conscience is not that severely affected that you’re willing to return your share of the money?’

  ‘It solved a financial crisis, but has destroyed the lives of my family.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s your stupid old-fashioned sense of right and wrong.’

  ‘You may be right, but I cannot live a lie.’

  ‘So you’re going to confess all to the police. Do you know what they’ll say inside the prison when they know your story?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’ll regard you as the biggest fool in Christendom. The man who had everything and gave it away due to a guilty conscience. Your wife is right in one respect. The pact we made all those years ago was a childish fantasy. The fantasy of four young boys wanting to be men. And now we are men, and the world is not so idealistic. It’s dog eat dog, and I intend to be the top dog. You’ve got your fortune, your loving wife and family, your stately home. What did I get as your relative? Nothing.’

  ‘Keith, one thing you should have received was the sense of right and wrong.’

  ‘Stop acting as if you were that little boy again. This is the real world, and it’s for the strong and resolute, not the feeble and honourable. How much money would you have made if you had had to work for it, if there had been no inheritance? Hell, man, you would have been lucky to have afforded a house in the suburbs. And what did I get, apart from the Allerton connection and a history of noble ancestors? I received nothing, but I did not complain and go weak at the knees when someone was threatening me, us. I’ll tell you what I did; I acted decisively. Hughenden was a liability. I couldn’t risk him talking to the police again.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Griffiths said. ‘It’s not something I could have done, but Keith has saved us. If you go blabbing to the police, we’ll all be in prison together.’

  ‘Why?’ Allerton said. ‘We did not know what was going to happen. We didn’t know that people were going to be murdered.’

  ‘Murder?’ Keith said. ‘That’s what the police call it. With the business we’re in, people die every day. Some on the street from the products we sell; others because of their treachery.’

  ‘Hughenden?’

  ‘Eventually he would have done what was necessary to save his own skin. I had nothing against him personally, but business is business. Griffiths understands.’

  ‘That I do,’ Jacob Griffiths said. He had helped himself to coffee and was sitting comfortably on a chair to one side of the kitchen. He looked around the house, and he had to admit it looked good. Fortescue, they all knew, was not a man of any great skills, but he knew how to live well. Even Griffiths had to admit that the idea of a mistress appealed, but then he thought that was more likely a middle-aged itch. He had been married to the same woman for over twenty years, good and bad, and he knew his conscience would not allow it. Still, it was good to daydream.

  Miles Fortescue was not sure which way to turn. The money had been great, and he had no strong morals, only an innate desire to do what was best for himself. He knew that as a politician he was no Disraeli or a Churchill, but he knew how to ingratiate himself with his constituency, and how to ensure he was a member of various select committees, especially the one addressing the escalating supply of illegal drugs in the community. Committees alwa
ys allowed him to get his name in the papers and on television, and that was all he wanted, apart from his mistresses. He did not envy Allerton with his obsession about title and duty, or Griffiths with his need to deal with trade. Fortescue knew that politically he was savvy, and the bumbling politician, more often than not, was an engineered affectation.

  Keith, he knew, even in their time at Eton, was a dishonest person. It was he who would steal cigarettes and sell them around the dormitory of a night-time. It was he who would sneak them into the emergency exit at the local cinema to watch the latest risqué movie, and somehow he would always have a few X-rated magazines for hire to the boys who could not afford to partake of one of the obliging ladies in the area.

  ‘Allerton, you’re a bloody fool,’ Fortescue said. He could see political expediency, the need for drastic action if a disaster was to be avoided, a need for compromise. ‘Keith, it’s up to you,’ he said.

  ‘Allerton, Tim, what are you going to do? Keith asked.

  ‘I will wait one more week. If there are no more deaths and this whole sorry business is wrapped up, then I’ll do no more.’

  ‘And the police?’

  ‘I’ll not talk to them.’

  The four men, all relieved after resolving the issue, went out to a restaurant favoured by Keith. No more was said of the events that had led to their unexpected meeting. At eleven in the evening, Lord Allerton left their company for the drive back to his home and his family. He was a man at peace with the world.

  Chapter 19

  Isaac, along with his team and Len Donaldson, waited in the office at Challis Street for Allerton. Bridget had done some preliminary work on the man. They had a dossier of his friends, past and recent, as well as a complete rundown on the man’s history, his family, a provisional statement of wealth. The one thing they did not have was the man, and he was not answering his phone.

  ‘It’s suspicious,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘The man said he would be here and he was willing to blow this case wide open.’

  ‘He’s not going to show, you know that.’

  Isaac phoned Richard Goddard to keep him up to date. The death of Hughenden had raised the issue of additional help for Isaac, and yet again he and Goddard had blocked anyone else joining the team. With the murderer known for three of the four murders, the situation in the office was looking much better. Hughenden was almost certainly killed by Steve Walters, but the man was not around. If Allerton was not going to appear, there were two things to do: find him and Walters.

  Lord Allerton’s address was well known, an elegant stately home in Derbyshire; it even had its own website, and it was impressive. Isaac wondered why a person who had so much would become involved in crime. The website showed Allerton with his wife and two daughters, all photogenic, although Isaac had dealt with members of the upper class before on previous cases, and there were always skeletons in the cupboard.

  Isaac, a man who liked to live well, to have a good woman at his side, although he was bereft of that luxury at present, did not envy those who had plenty. They seemed to have endless problems, and a stately home, he well knew, may be picture postcard but it would be excessively expensive to maintain and draughty in winter.

  Isaac called Larry back into his office as he was preparing to leave. ‘Steve Walters, any luck?’

  ‘There’s an APW out for him, and the local police in his home town are looking,’ Larry replied.

  ‘Not really good enough, is it?’

  ‘I would agree, but we’ve no idea where to look. We know he was here when he killed Hughenden, but since then, nothing.’

  ‘Tomorrow, first thing, you and Wendy resume your search for him.’

  ‘Yes, sir. What about Lord Allerton?’

  ‘Make sure there’s an APW out for him before you leave.’

  ‘I’ve already done it. Also, I’ve phoned the local police where he lives. I know the officer in charge from a long time back. They know the man, like him as well. They’re going to station a car on the road leading up to his home. If they see him, they’ll give us a call.’

  Isaac left the office with Larry. The day had shown promise, but in the end it had disappointed. Allerton was the key to breaking the whole case wide open, although having the guilty man in custody for two murders out of four was not a bad tally.

  ***

  Steve Walters had found solace in a restaurant not far from the hotel where he was lying low. He reflected on what had happened with Hughenden. How he had entered through the back door after the man had opened it. At first, the man had been surprised to see him, and more than a little nervous.

  Walters remembered how he had soothed his fear with words supplied by the mysterious voice on the other end of their short phone conversation. In the end, Hughenden had fetched a drink for the two of them.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Hughenden had asked.

  ‘I need to get away. Somewhere I won’t be discovered.’

  ‘That’s what Devlin wanted to do.’

  ‘He’s in prison.’

  ‘And you’ll be if they catch you here.’

  ‘They won’t.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘I’ve disguised myself well,’ Walters said. His hair was dyed jet black and cut very short, not straggly as it normally was and he was dressed well in a suit, not an old jacket and faded jeans.

  ‘That’s true,’ a frightened man pretending to be brave said. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Only the money outstanding.’

  Hughenden had walked to the safe and opened it, remembering to obscure the combination from the man who watched his every move. ‘Here you are. Fifty-five thousand pounds.’

  ‘With that and the extra bonus I’ll be receiving, I’ll have enough.’

  ‘What bonus?’

  ‘One last task and I’m heading off to the sun.’

  ‘What bonus?’ Hughenden repeated.

  ‘For killing you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal, purely business,’ Walters said, paraphrasing Hughenden when he had given the order for the death of Rodrigo Fuentes.

  Hughenden, sensing the change in Walters’ mood, had backed away from the safe and the man who was threatening him.

  Walters pursued him, the jewellery shop owner upending a chair in his attempt to get away. He rushed to the front door; it had been locked. With Hughenden forced into a corner, Walters grabbed hold of his prey. Hughenden fought, but he was a slight man whereas the man wrapping the wire around his neck was strong.

  Walters tightened the wire; Hughenden gasped and died.

  ‘You’ll be comfortable there,’ the murderer said as he sat the dead man on a chair.

  ***

  Allerton Hall, the ancestral home of the Allertons, had been built four hundred years earlier. It sat on five hundred acres of prime agricultural land on the edge of the Derbyshire Moors. As Lord Allerton approached the imposing brick structure, he wondered what his reception would be like.

  He had left that morning with the certainty that his next place of abode would be a prison cell, not the family home. He had phoned his wife to tell her he was returning.

  ‘Are we going to survive?’ she had asked.

  His answer, he remembered, had been noncommittal. Their future was in the hands of another man, his cousin. He well remembered them playing together as children; he the wealthy son of a lord, Keith the son of a village doctor. They had been friends then, even friends at Eton College, the elite school for the sons of gentlemen and royalty. Their friendship had lasted until today, he was sure of that. He knew he had broken the code that held former pupils of that august centre of learning together. The Lord knew he had been right to do so. An Allerton does not get involved with trade or crime; it was the unwritten code that had lasted for centuries, the code that had allowed the family to weather the inevitable crises that occur in life, and yet he had broken that cardinal rule. He knew that if his wife forgave him,
if Keith kept his side of the bargain, he could go back to his comfortable existence; he knew equally that he could never forgive himself. He was damned, and he knew it.

  As he approached the last corner before driving through the metal gates at the entrance to Allerton Park, he looked out at the view. His ancestor had chosen well. The house and grounds sat high over the surrounding countryside. The road was sometimes tricky, especially in winter, with a steep drop on one side, but he was driving a Bentley – one of the benefits of his ill-gotten gains – and it was purring along nicely. Keith had been right: he was a hypocrite in that he enjoyed the financial benefits of a criminal venture, not giving much thought to it, only to be concerned when the murders had become too much. Timothy Allerton knew he was a pacifist and death, violent death, did not sit comfortably with him. The death of Dougal Stewart had not concerned him, nor the death of the Brazilian, but Hughenden’s had.

  Was it because he was a cultured man, the same as him? Was he a snob? he thought. He knew the answer to that question.

  Allerton casually reached over for the remote control to the gates. He did not notice the Land Rover that came out of nowhere. He looked up too late. The Bentley, which was travelling slowly, bore the full brunt of the four-wheel drive as it hit the driver’s door. Momentarily stunned, Allerton attempted to extricate himself and the car. Again and again the Land Rover kept coming forward, pushing hard on the door. A hand reached out of the Land Rover and shot out a front tyre and then a rear tyre of the Bentley. With no further control over the vehicle, Allerton tried to get out of the car but it was not possible. The Land Rover, with one final push, its engine straining against the immense weight of the Bentley, managed to tip the vehicle over the low stone wall beside the road. Once the car had left the road, the Land Rover sped away.

  All that Timothy Allerton remembered was the vehicle tumbling over and over down the steep slope as it headed towards the edge of an old stone quarry. If he had been conscious after the car had fallen the last one hundred feet, he would have had the answer to the question he had posed that morning: when and if he would ever return to his home. The answer was never. An old Land Rover had resolved that question.