DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

‘Affairs?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘Not the sort you are referring to. My husband did not become involved with other women.’

  ‘He phoned me earlier today,’ Isaac said. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Isaac thought he had seen her move imperceptibly in her chair. The woman was distraught; it could be the only logical reaction after the man she had shared a bed with for the last twenty years had died violently not three hours before. It was clear that she believed in a stiff upper lip, especially in front of the staff, and especially in front of two police inspectors. He gave her the benefit of the doubt and a willingness to accept all that she told them as true.

  ‘Lady Allerton, do you believe your husband capable of an illegal act?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘Timothy? No way. You’d never meet a more honest man.’ Lady Allerton was firm in her rejection of Donaldson’s aspersion.

  ‘My apologies if I offended you.’

  ‘Your apology is accepted.’

  ‘But we have reason to believe that he was.’

  ‘How dare you come into my house and accuse my husband, a man who died only a few hours ago, of criminal activity.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Isaac said, ‘but he phoned to tell me he wanted to confess.’

  ‘Go, please go. I will not speak to you anymore without my lawyer being present. My husband was a good man, adored by his wife and his children. Your accusations are scurrilous.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be impolite,’ Isaac said, knowing full well that their time at Allerton Hall was about to conclude. ‘A vehicle intentionally ran your husband’s car off the road. It’s not a random hit and miss, it’s murder. The question is why?’

  Outside the house, Donaldson spoke. ‘At least she was polite enough when she showed us the door.’

  ‘Too polite,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘I want to, but she could be lying through her teeth.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s aristocracy. Don’t try to reason it too closely. They run with a different set of moral barometers: position and respect are more important than the mere machinations of a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Are you saying that if she knew something, she’d keep quiet just to protect the good name of the Allertons?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Isaac replied.

  ***

  Bridget traced the Land Rover with no difficulty: a 2007 Defender.

  The timing of Allerton’s death indicated that someone knew of his movements. And the two officers were familiar with the description of the driver. If it was who they thought it was, then he was in the north and possibly nearby, although that was far from conclusive.

  ‘We need to find Walters,’ Larry said to Wendy.

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  ‘Someone knew how to contact him.’

  ‘No one we know.’

  ‘Allerton may have. Do we have his phone?’

  Larry called Isaac as he was about to leave the Allerton property. ‘We need Lord Allerton’s phone.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. We’re off to see Terry Smith, the youngest of the three boys, again. He’s at his home in the village not far from here. He’s been correct with the vehicle's registration; he may be able to tell us more.’

  Isaac phoned Inspector Corker after ending his call with Larry. ‘Do you have Allerton’s phone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s still working.’

  ‘I need it.’

  ‘It’s evidence. You’ll need authority.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  Isaac phoned Goddard, his senior, explained the situation. Within fifteen minutes the phone was released.

  ‘Quick work there,’ Corker said.

  ‘We’re off to see Terry Smith. Can you bring the phone to his house?’

  ‘No problems. Terry’s the hero.’

  ‘He was accurate with the vehicle. We need to see if he can assist in proving who I think the driver is.’

  ‘It’ll do him good to be the centre of attention. The other children tease him mercilessly, but he’s harmless, just slow. Oxygen starvation at birth.’

  ‘You owe him a reward,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘I promised him one. You’ll need to deal with it.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.’

  ***

  The unexpected death of a member of the aristocracy was bound to cause a ruffling of feathers in Scotland Yard. It was not long before the expected reaction.

  ‘Lord Allerton. What’s going on?’ Goddard blasted down Isaac’s phone.

  Isaac and Donaldson had just left young Terry Smith’s house. He had not been able to add much more to what he had seen. Billy, his elder brother, remembered that the driver of the Land Rover crunched the gears on the vehicle.

  ‘Allerton was involved,’ Isaac responded to the man he once admired, but could only feel contempt for now.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘He told us.’

  ‘And it’s proven?’

  ‘It would have been, but someone beat us to him.’

  ‘Explain yourself, DCI. I’ve got the commissioner breathing down my neck, and the former commissioner is asking what’s happened.’

  ‘You mean Lord Shaw, your mentor?’ Isaac replied, remembering the close relationship his DCS had had with the previous commissioner; the same as he had previously had with his DCS.

  ‘As you say, my mentor. But the man’s in the House of Lords and one of their own has been murdered. It is murder, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need something to keep Davies off my back.’

  ‘Very well,’ Isaac replied. ‘Earlier this morning, Lord Allerton phoned me to say he was coming into Challis Street to confess.’

  ‘Did he arrive?’

  ‘No. We were all here, and he had been clear that he would give names, including the person who has been running the drug syndicate.’

  ‘When he didn’t turn up?’

  ‘There wasn’t a lot we could do. It was only a few hours, and we had no information on where he was, or what car he was driving. Our assumption was that he had been delayed or had chickened out.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘No. We phoned the police station close to Allerton’s home to keep a watch for him. They saw him pass by, but fifteen minutes later, the man’s dead.’

  Goddard let out an audible sigh of exasperation. ‘Keep me posted. I’m off to another earbashing.’

  ‘Commissioner Davies?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Who else? Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it.’

  Isaac felt sympathy for the man who had guided his career, a willingness to see the best in his DCS. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  ‘And you. Wrap this up soon or else.’

  ‘Or else the commissioner will wrap us up.’

  ‘You know the procedure.’

  ‘By now I should,’ Isaac replied. ‘As long as it doesn’t involve that obnoxious DCI Caddick.’

  ‘It probably will. The man hangs around like a bad smell.’

  ***

  With no information to the contrary, Isaac and the team moved forward on the premise that Steve Walters had driven the Land Rover. Isaac, in possession of Allerton’s mobile phone number, had passed it on to Bridget who was accessing the records of calls made, calls received.

  As Isaac was driving on the return journey to Challis Street, it would not be as quick as the trip up. Even so, they still expected to be back in the early hours of the morning. He knew the team would still be working, but he needed at least a couple of hours sleep. He agreed to meet up at seven the next morning in his office.

  The phone which Inspector Corker had given him was in his pocket. The numbers in the phone’s memory could be of some interest, but whoever had arranged for the death of Allerton, or who Allerton may have spoken to, would almost certainly be recent and on re
cord.

  Wendy and Larry were in the office going through the spreadsheet that Bridget had supplied them. Most phone calls made from Allerton’s phone had been trivial and easily discounted. What was important to the team was that they did not alert Allerton’s criminal accomplices to what was going on.

  It was clear that Hughenden’s and now Allerton’s deaths were the acts of desperate people. Larry was confident they were closing in, and he intended to stay in the office until they had something to tell their DCI in the morning. His wife, as usual, complained about the hours worked.

  Wendy, on her own after the death of her husband, had no one complaining about her; she wished she had, but realised she never would. All she had were her two cats, the legacy of a cat-loving woman in a previous case who had died after seeing her dead son. Wendy had never been a cat person, but she had become fond of them. Larry had taken another of the cats, and it was well ensconced in the Hills’ household, so much so that he had to push it out of his chair every night when he got home.

  Of the thirty plus numbers on the spreadsheet, several were deemed suspicious. It had been possible to identify Allerton’s family, as well as his lawyer and local tradesmen, yet some remained unclear. Why would he have been phoning an MP, and a well-known businessman? The men on the other end of the phone numbers could have been innocuous and completely innocent, but the team were very suspicious of everything and everyone.

  Lord Allerton had appeared to be beyond reproach, but he had been willing to come in and confess. What about the MP, the businessman? Could they be innocent or was there something more?

  ‘Bridget,’ Wendy asked, ‘any correlation with the records from Eton College?’

  ‘Allerton went to the college with the two men.’

  ‘So they’re innocent.’

  ‘I’m just the office worker, you’re the police sergeant,’ Bridget replied with typical late-night humour.

  ‘Larry, how do you fancy a day hobnobbing with the upper classes?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘A trip to Eton College? When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What about the meeting here?’

  ‘That’s fine. We’ll be here at 7 a.m. After that we’ll drive down to Eton, it’s not far.’

  ‘Agreed. Do you know anyone down there?’

  ‘Eton College? It’s hardly likely. Maybe the janitor,’ Wendy said.

  Chapter 21

  ‘You bastard, you stinking bastard,’ Lady Allerton screamed down the phone.

  ‘Laura, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Keith Codrington replied.

  ‘You were always trying to get him involved in some lame-brained scheme or other, and now he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Did you kill him? Tell me that.’

  ‘Of course not. I may be a rogue, but I’m not a murderer.’

  ‘You lying bastard. You had him killed to protect whatever shabby business you’re involved in. Tim was a good man, even if he was a soft touch. Believe me, I should know.’

  ‘He married you.’

  ‘I loved the man for all his faults. Is this revenge because I refused you?’

  ‘That was a long time ago, and besides, I couldn’t give you a title.’

  ‘Tim said it was drugs.’

  ‘The police, did you tell them?’

  ‘And bring the family name into disrepute?’

  ‘Not you,’ Keith Codrington said. ‘You would have fed them a line about what a good man he was. No doubt some tears.’

  ‘Timothy told me everything,’ Laura Allerton said. She knew she was talking to the responsible person; a person callous enough to have someone killed. She remembered when they had been lovers all those years before. She remembered his arrogance, his unfailing belief in himself, his desire to show that even though he was only a distant cousin, he deserved the title and her. He knew she would have gone with him if that had been the case, but the cards had been stacked against him. The one person that he could not have, and she was on the phone berating him for killing her husband.

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me about the smuggling of drugs into the country, and how it had saved us from financial ruin.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Yes, of course it did.’

  ‘Then was the cost worth it?’

  ‘If I had known before I would have said no.’

  ‘But you didn’t. And now? Are you willing to give all the money back?’

  ‘What do you think I am, stupid?’

  ‘Anything but stupid. You’ll hang onto the money, as Tim would have. The man may have gone soft, but he wanted the money, not the risk.’

  ‘Is that an admission of your guilt?’

  ‘Not an admission, just a statement of fact.’

  ‘You murdered him because he was going to talk to the police. Don’t deny it.’

  ‘You know me better than that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. You’re guilty. Did he tell you he had already phoned the police?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Before you killed him.’

  The phone went silent for a few moments. ‘What do the police know?’ Keith Codrington, former lover of Lady Laura Allerton and murderer of her husband, asked.

  ‘They knew he was involved, but he had given them no names.’

  ‘That’s why they were up there with you so quickly.’

  ‘They’re not dummies. They’ll put two and two together.’

  ‘And you, Laura? What’s your position?’

  ‘I will protect the Allerton name.’

  ‘Even if that means lying.’

  ‘And whatever else is necessary. You’re the murdering bastard who destroyed us.’

  ‘I saved you. What if you had been forced to leave Allerton Hall? You’re a snob, the same as Tim was, the same as me, but I don’t have a fancy title, only my ability to make money. One day you’ll thank me.’

  ‘It won’t be today,’ Laura Allerton said as she ended the phone call. It was time to mourn her husband.

  ***

  The meeting in the office at Challis Street the following morning took less time than expected. Len Donaldson was spending so much time in the office that Bridget had bought him his own coffee mug from a shop down the road.

  Apart from a debriefing on Isaac and Donaldson’s trip north, not much was said. Wendy and Larry were ahead of the game and were ready to make the trip to Eton College.

  A local inspector had phoned the college to arrange an appointment with the administration office.

  Upon arrival, they were ushered into a warm room. They had not brought any uniformed police at the request of the college. ‘Doesn’t look good,’ Maureen Goode, the head of admissions said.

  Wendy thought that it may look even worse when the truth of what some of their ex-pupils had been involved in became general knowledge. So far, Lord Allerton’s death was being reported as murder, cause unknown, although that did not stop the speculation on social media, ranging from close to the truth to the bizarre. Not that Wendy took any notice of it. Apart from the occasional email and her limited attempts at typing a report, she saw no need for the technological age. She had grown up in a small farming community, and there had been no technology apart from a black and white television, a crackling radio and a black Bakelite telephone.

  ‘Mrs Goode,’ Wendy said, ‘you are aware of the death of Lord Allerton.’

  ‘Yes. Tragic. They said a few words in assembly this morning about him.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Oh no. I’ve only been here ten years. He left long before that.’

  ‘We are here because of his death. We need to find out who may have borne a grudge against him.’

  ‘He’s an Old Etonian. Nobody would.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Larry said, ‘but someone murdered him. You are aware of that.’

  ‘He’s one of our bo
ys. They’re such good people, good citizens. You’re conscious of the quality of the young men we admit, their families?’

  Their bank balances, Wendy thought but kept it to herself. Larry had checked on Wikipedia. They had had their fair share of villains as well, regardless of Mrs Goode’s statement to the contrary.

  ‘Is there anyone here who would remember Lord Allerton? Possibly a member of the teaching faculty,’ Larry asked.

  ‘Mr Weston, one of our chemistry teachers. He was a pupil here at the same time as Lord Allerton. He made a speech at the early morning assembly about his memories of the dead man.’

  ‘When can we meet him?’

  ‘He’ll be free within an hour. I’ll make sure he comes over to meet you both.’

  ***

  ‘That damn fool had already told the police that he was going to see them,’ Keith Codrington said.

  ‘And you still went and killed him,’ Fortescue said.

  The three remaining men met in the centre of London at a café they frequented.

  ‘What can we do?’ Griffiths asked. He knew there was no way out. The trail was too hot now, and it was only a matter of time.

  ‘You two can claim ignorance,’ Codrington said. His previously unshakable belief in his infallibility was crumbling, and the other two men could see that: the shirt that he wore, the jacket, the trousers, the shine on his shoes, none were as sharp as on previous occasions.

  ‘Ignorance will not protect us,’ Fortescue said.

  ‘You're innocent of the murders. You took no part in the business other than to finance me when I asked. What’s the most that can happen?’

  ‘Keith’s right,’ Jacob Griffiths said. ‘The most we’ll get is five years.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Fortescue retorted. ‘We’ll be social lepers. I’ll lose my comfy seat in Westminster.’

  ‘And your mistresses,’ Griffiths said. ‘What will happen to me? The banks will renege on their loans.’

  ‘Allerton may have been a lily-livered coward, but he didn’t complain as much as you two. And now, when it’s falling down around our ears, you're hoping that it will all go away. Well, it won’t. The only question is what do we do?’