As far as anyone knew, Big Greg had been on the street for more than ten years, and in all that time no one had broken through his shield. Bob Robertson, the manager of the charity, where Big Greg came every day for a midday meal, knew him better than most.
He would have told you that Big Greg probably had a secret, like almost everyone on the street did. With some it was a violent relationship, with others it was drugs or drink, but with Big Greg, there was apparently nothing. The man didn’t smoke or drink, and he certainly did not use drugs. The only vice that he would have agreed to was a propensity to read, and he could always be found with a book or two in his hand. Also, others had noticed him writing in a notebook. Once it was filled, he would start another, discarding the old one in a bin.
Nobody knew why, not even Bob Robertson, and he had asked him enough times.
Robertson had once taken one of the discarded notebooks from a bin and read through it. Even he, a literate and educated man, had difficulty understanding what was written. All that he could see were disconnected paragraphs of five hundred words or so, with complex mathematical formulas and technical drawings.
He knew that an admittance that he had read some of Big Greg’s writing would have been met with a rebuke, although he was curious to know more.
Robertson had run the charity for fifteen years. During that time, he had met a disparate group of people, but no one like the big man who every day presented himself at the charity’s premises. There, he helped himself to two helpings of whatever food and drink were on offer. Some days it would be meat, others fish, even a good salad on one occasion, but that had not gone down well with those who ate only one meal a day. But with Big Greg there was no complaining. He came in, loaded up his plate, spoke congenially to everyone, and then left. No fuss, no fanfare, no interest in anything else.
The last time, Robertson had stood to one side of the room where the street dwellers ate. He studied the man that intrigued him. There was no question in his mind that Big Greg had a story to tell, a story so shocking that the stories of the others who relied on the charity would pale in comparison.
What did he know about Big Greg, Robertson thought as he sat in front of his computer: tall, well-spoken, obviously educated and articulate, and able to recite poetry, Shakespeare mainly, although also the other English poets of note, and then the man could write mathematical formulas that he could not understand.
Robertson entered one of the formulas from the notebook he had kept into the computer, and pressed search: no success. He entered two others with the same result. The fourth time, a result. Robertson looked at the screen, attempting to understand what it was telling him. The mathematical paper that he had discovered was far too complicated for him.
With no more to do, Robertson left his office and walked outside into the street. It was ten in the evening, and for once the area outside the charity’s premises was quiet, save for a couple of the homeless dossing down for the night, wrapped in blankets, the ubiquitous shopping trolleys full of their possessions and whatever else they had picked up off the street nearby.
A man came close to Robertson’s left-hand side as he rounded a corner. ‘You’ve been spying on me,’ he said.
‘Big Greg, I never expected to see you around here at this time of night.’
‘I’ve told you enough times.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Robertson replied. He looked up at the man, only to see a metal pole coming down at him. Robertson fell down, cracking his head against a concrete kerb. The two vagrants, no more than twenty feet away, did not even look in the direction of the noise. If they had, they would have seen a dead body, another man walking away.
***
Inside Bob Robertson’s hostel, most had been asleep, although one, a woman in her late thirties, struggling with the pangs of withdrawal from a drug habit that had blighted her life, had been fluctuating between sleep and wakefulness.
The woman, Katrina Ireland, had led a troubled life: an abusive father and an equally abusive boyfriend who had introduced her to drugs and eventual prostitution, but now she was trying to wean herself off the drugs. Robertson had taken her under his wing, as he did with so many others. During the day, she attended a clinic in the morning to assist with her drug dependency, and in the afternoon, she helped out with stacking the shelves at a local supermarket. It wasn’t much of a life, she knew that, but considering the options she didn’t complain.
Regardless, she knew it was not too late to make something of her life, and because of Bob Robertson, a man she admired, her future looked brighter than it had for a long time, but the drugs were still proving difficult. To her, they had been so seductive, and she knew that the urge for them would never fade. She was planning to move into a small flat in the next few weeks and the idea frightened her. In the hostel she felt safe, and as long as Bob Robertson was around, there was always a willing ear, someone who understood.
Katrina, awake and eventually tiring of a never-ending knocking on the door and abusive shouting, got up from her bed and walked down the two flights of stairs to the back door of the building. ‘It’s three in the morning,’ she shouted.
‘I need a bed.’
‘Come back later. Bob’s asleep.’
Katrina recognised the voice, one of the men usually huddled around an open fire on the abandoned building site no more than three hundred yards from the hostel. ‘Are you drunk? she questioned the man, knowing full well Bob Robertson’s policy on alcohol.
‘I’ve not touched a drop.’
‘Very well.’ Katrina opened the door. On the other side stood a small, hunched-over man, a blanket wrapped around him. ‘Doug, what is it?’ she said.
‘The police moved us on. I need a bed.’
‘It’ll be daylight in a few more hours.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve come late,’ Doug said. Katrina had known him for a few years, and he was not a man who drank much, other than to keep warm. Most times, he just wandered around the area, minding his own business, looking in shop windows, ferreting through rubbish bins looking for food, and picking up discarded cigarettes from the ground. Bob Robertson, she knew, would not have a problem with Doug, one of the more harmless.
‘Okay, but you’ll need to be quiet.’
‘As quiet as a mouse, you know me.’
The two walked back up the stairs to where there was a spare bed. Katrina knew that Bob would want to sign him in, and he’d not complain if she knocked on his door to tell him that Doug was staying the night. ‘Bob,’ she said as she gently tapped on his door.
It was unusual that he had not opened the door to Doug, and as far as Katrina could remember, it was the first time that he had failed to do so. She checked in his bedroom, no Bob. She walked around the hostel after making sure that Doug was bedded down.
Eventually, she decided to look around the adjoining streets. As she rounded the front of the hostel, she saw him lying on the ground. ‘Bob, what is it?’ Katrina shook him, no response. ‘Help,’ she shouted.
The two men who had been sleeping nearby stirred. ‘Keep quiet, we’re trying to sleep,’ one of them said. The other raised his head, looked at the woman apparently hovering over another man sleeping rough.
‘He’s dead,’ Katrina shouted.
The first of the men came over, his blankets still draped around him. He smelt awful, the reason that Bob had not let him in that night. ‘Call the police in the morning. They’ll deal with it.’
‘It’s Bob.’
‘The hostel manager?’
‘We need an ambulance now.’
‘In the morning,’ the vacant reply. ‘I need to sleep.’ The man went back to where he had been sleeping. Katrina, frantic and unable to concentrate, the withdrawal symptoms exacerbated by the stress of the situation, shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Help!’
A couple out walking their dog, even though it was very early, came over to see what the disturbance was about.
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‘He’s dead.’ Katrina pointed to the man on the ground.
The man bent down close to the body. ‘He’s been smashed across the back of the head,’ he said.
The man’s wife made a phone call to emergency services. Ten minutes later, an ambulance arrived. The police were already on the scene. Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, woken from his sleep, was on the way.
Chapter 2
By the time, DCI Isaac Cook arrived at the crime scene, the uniforms had taped off the area. The two men sleeping rough not far from the body were sitting up and semi-coherent. Sergeant Wendy Gladstone and Detective Inspector Larry Hill were also on their way. Isaac knew that the death of Bob Robertson would send shock waves throughout the community.
Isaac had met the man on many occasions, shared the occasional coffee at a local café, never alcohol. Isaac knew the man was a recovering alcoholic, probably the reason he could be so empathic with the people at the hostel. Whatever the reason, Robertson had been able to secure the patronage of a couple of the leading businessmen in the area, as well as the local church’s assistance in setting up the hostel. It wasn’t in the greatest of locations, but it was central to where the majority of the homeless congregated. As a favour Robertson had rounded up those sleeping in the park opposite Isaac’s flat, although two nights later they were back. ‘Not much I can do,’ Robertson had admitted.
The DCI also knew Katrina Ireland, although when they had first met she had been Kat and she had been hawking her wares. Isaac had seen her at the hostel a few times; he never felt the need to remind her that he had arrested her when she had been underage and he had been in uniform. The woman in front of him at the crime scene, distraught as could be expected given that she owed her life to Bob Robertson, was not the same person that he had known previously. The marks on her arms were still visible from when she had injected herself, the tattoos still obtrusive, although now they were concealed by a coat. He had to admit that her attractive looks had returned, although she still had the look of someone who had led a rough life.
‘You found the body?’ Isaac asked, back in the confines of the hostel. Most of the patrons were now out on the street, huddled in blankets, some with bare feet, some upset, some of the others not conscious of what had happened.
‘Yes,’ Katrina Ireland said.
‘Are you able to talk?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I knew Bob well, if that helps,’ Isaac said.
‘I’ve seen you with him. You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘I’ve always assumed you’d prefer to forget the past.’
‘Thanks. You’re right, the past is the past. Bob had found me a place to stay, and I’m clean.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Always, but I was going to stay clean, and no more selling myself. I wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint Bob, and now he’s gone.’
‘The best we can do is to find out who did this.’
‘I had let Doug in the back door.’
‘Doug?’
‘He’s one of the regulars. He’s harmless.’
‘What’s his story?’
‘I’ve no idea. You’ll need to ask him.’
‘Let’s go back to after you had let Doug in.’
‘Bob always likes to know if someone’s being signed in, regardless of the time. I knocked on his door, but he wasn’t there. I know that he’s pedantic about it, in case anyone is slipping in with drugs.’
‘Then what?’
‘He wasn’t in the building, so I put on my coat and walked around the block. That’s when I found him.’
‘Out the front?’
‘Where he is now. I tried to shake him but nothing. In the end, a couple with their dog came by and phoned for you.’
‘The two men sleeping rough?’
‘You’re wasting your time. They’re both out of it.’
‘Alcohol?’
‘Their brains are stewed. They’ll not be able to tell you much.’
‘I’ll talk to them later. In the meantime, any more you can tell me? Any enemies, people with a grudge?’
‘Not with Bob. He could be tough if anyone snuck in here with drugs or alcohol, and there’s a few who are not allowed in, but killing the man, I don’t think so.’
‘Will you be alright, no relapse?’
‘Bob wouldn’t like it. I’ll stay clean in his honour. And besides, someone needs to keep this place running.’
‘If you need any help, let me know.’
‘I will. Thank you for not recognising me.’
‘As you said, the past is the past. What you make of the present is more important.’
Isaac left Katrina Ireland busying around the place, organising the breakfasts, making sure everyone was out at the agreed time and that the beds were ready for the next night.
***
There were few people that Isaac Cook liked more than Bob Robertson. In a part of town populated on the periphery by the wealthy, there still remained an unsavoury element hovering in some of the rundown parts of the area. In Bayswater, it was expensive real estate and people with expensive cars and expensive appetites, judging by the prices at some of the restaurants, but with Bob Robertson, his meals came free. As far as the man had been concerned, your race, your religion, and whether you slept rough or not were unimportant.
Gordon Windsor, Challis Street Police Station’s crime scene examiner, was soon at the crime scene. It was replete with the obligatory crowd of onlookers, the plain nosy and the disinterested, with nothing better to do than stare and offer comments, and a reporter from the local newspaper hoping to get a photo and a story. Not a chance, Isaac thought.
There were enough instant journalists with their smartphones and social media as it was, and the last thing he wanted was to make small talk to any of them or the local press, although he knew it would be required eventually.
It had been relatively quiet for a few weeks for the detective chief inspector, so much so that he had taken the opportunity to spend a couple of weeks in Jamaica visiting his relatives. He had to admit that a lifetime in England had not prepared him for the heat of the place, nor the hustle and bustle. He knew that he was glad to be back in London, but not to be taking control of another homicide investigation. There had just been too many, and even if he should be inured to the sight of a dead body, he wasn’t. Not that Bob Robertson looked particularly distressed in death – he’d seen worse, but the man had been a friend. Isaac knew that the man’s death was personal.
Inside the hostel, the uniforms were taking names and addresses, although most would only claim no fixed abode and a number of the names would be bogus. Isaac knew it would be only a matter of time before immigration was on the scene checking for any that had overstayed their visas. Under normal circumstances, Isaac may have been interested to find out if there were undesirables taking advantage of Bob Robertson’s kind nature, but not now. For now, he had a dead body, and he knew that invariably one body leads to another. In that neighbourhood, Bob Robertson had been sacrosanct, the person you could approach when life was becoming too difficult or when your husband was beating you.
Isaac had warned him about covering for those who needed to be dealt with by the law. They had had some rigorous discussions on the subject of helping people in need, easing them through their bad times, criminal or otherwise, or whether they should be locked up.
Isaac never won the argument, and often he had to admit that Robertson was right. Better to have a sinner repent and not sin again than to have him locked up. That had been Robertson’s philosophy, and in the area around the hostel there was not a lot of crime. The gangs maintained the peace for the man, the drunks kept their distance, and the drug pushers did not come within a square mile.
Isaac knew that Bob Robertson had been a pragmatist, always seeing the best in people, understanding the realities, and now he was dead.
***
The two men who had been sleeping close to the m
urder scene should have been the best witnesses, but Isaac could not place much credence on their testimony, even if they had been awake. Thirty years ago it was all too common: the alcoholic down on his luck, unable to afford to drink in the pub, relegated to cheap alcohol. Nowadays, it was hard drugs that affected the younger generation, and there were plenty of them making their way down the slippery slope from respectability to being degenerate and lost. The first of the two men, toothless and reeking of alcohol, was the more coherent, but even that was debatable, at least to Wendy Gladstone, Homicide’s dependable sergeant. If anyone could make sense of the man, it would be her.
‘Do you remember seeing Bob Robertson here?’ Wendy spoke slowly, enunciating every word. Her Yorkshire accent still came through, even though she had lived in London for most of her life. In her fifties, she was the oldest in the department, and whereas she would not rise above the rank of sergeant, there were very few in the London Metropolitan Police, who could lay claim to her depth of experience. Isaac knew that there were none that could find a missing person as well as her. Back in the office, Bridget Halloran, the department’s administrator, and Wendy’s great friend, would be opening the case file, preparing a case for the prosecution, readying the ancillary staff.
Bridget, an avid enthusiast of the computer age, and Wendy Gladstone, barely able to write an email, had hit it off some years previously. Back then Bridget had been confined to a cubicle looking at CCTV all day. Wendy had asked her to assist with typing up her reports. Bridget typed at eighty words a minute, Wendy with one finger at a time. It had been Wendy who had brought her into Homicide, and after Wendy’s husband had died, Bridget had moved in with Wendy. The relationship suited the two women fine, and although boozy nights did not interest them anymore, they were both pleased to pool their resources. With their improved finances, the boozy nights had been replaced by trips overseas.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 107