Larry had spent further time with Katrina Ireland, Wendy had asked those sleeping rough close to the hostel, and Isaac had been around to the hostel on a few occasions before Robertson’s death, but for some reason he had never seen the man. It was as if he knew the police on sight and made sure to keep away at those times.
Isaac had to admit it looked suspicious, but it wasn’t often that the homeless were violent. There was the occasional fracas over a sheltered place under a bridge or next to a heating vent, even over a position close to an open fire, but they were invariably committed while under the influence of drink, or nowadays after taking illegal drugs. Even then, they were not injury inflicting, at least, not in the main, although there had been a case a couple of years previously where one of those being pushed had fallen into the river and drowned. Not that anyone ever came forward afterwards, and the homeless encampment had been vacated long before the police arrived on the scene, remarkable given that they typically moved slowly, always protested when being moved on, which was all too often.
Legislation recently enacted by the local council was disliked by the homeless, those who could understand its ramifications, as well as the protectors of civil liberties, in that the homeless were to be assigned to an area north of their current neighbourhood. There, there would be proper supervision, shower blocks, and medical care if needed. There had been protests, inevitable given the fractious nature of the society, by those who opposed it. Those who supported the move were the wealthy and those whose businesses had been impacted by a tramp sleeping in their doorway at night, leaving their makeshift bed and shopping trolley, even an old cupboard sometimes, for people to walk around.
Bob Robertson, Isaac knew, was one of those on the side of the disadvantaged, so much so that it seemed a possible motive. The man had not been the most vocal, not even the most influential, in that a member of parliament, a rabble-rousing individual by the name of Gavin Crampton, had taken the cause of the homeless and was using it to his political advantage. Isaac knew Crampton personally, having met him through the previous commissioner of the Met.
The former commissioner had introduced him to Crampton, unavoidable at a function to celebrate the relationship between the police and the general public. Isaac remembered that the MP had been sneering in his condemnation of any improvement and thought that the police were only there to subdue the downtrodden, to inflict their rules on those who needed support. The man was a bigot, Isaac knew, who had been elected in a marginalised constituency, one of the most deprived in the country.
Crampton, he knew, preached one view, lived another, and he was not to be found with those he publicly cherished, but privately was more likely to be at his house in Bayswater, or out in one or another restaurant around London, not that it stopped his proselytising.
Bob Robertson had been vocal in his condemnation of the legislation to relocate the homeless, even expressed his views on the radio, and it still remained a viable motive, but apart from that, there seemed no other reason. The building where the hostel was located hardly appeared to be a reason either, in that it was owned by a local businessman, the rent was paid on it, and the real estate market was flat. It could have been some other local residents who felt that their properties were being devalued, but Robertson had improved the area since he had taken over. Isaac remembered the adjoining streets from before, even though it was over ten years ago. Back then, there had been drug pushers who’d run at the sight of a police officer, teens shooting up heroin in alleys, prostitutes hawking their wares in the entrances to seedy buildings. Inside would be a room set up with fairy lights, smelling of cheap perfume, where the man partaking would be treated to ten to fifteen minutes before being hustled out into the street. There had been a disturbance where Isaac and his partner at the time, an older police officer, had had to intervene after the whore’s pimp had wrested a knife out of the hand of a man who had just enjoyed his fifteen minutes’ worth and subsequently found his wallet missing. By the time the two officers had arrived, the man had received a cut on the arm. All three, the whore, the pimp, and the victim, had spent a few hours at the police station before being released.
Katrina Ireland, Isaac remembered, had sold herself from the club where she had gyrated, sometimes from a phone number pinned up in a telephone box, although there were not many of them left, but never in a seedy doorway.
Chapter 6
Larry had spent two days visiting the local areas where the homeless congregated, even asking Wendy to assist him on a few occasions. As well as the two of them, Larry had also brought in a few additional officers.
It wasn’t as if Big Greg was not known, as he certainly was, and by most of those on the street; it was just that the man was not around.
‘He used to be here with me some nights,’ said an old man who had found a warm spot around the back of Paddington Railway Station. Larry could see why, with a heating vent emitting warm air over those closest to it.
‘What’s your name?’ Larry asked, not looking at the surroundings, which were grim. The man had an old dog tied on a lead; it looked as if it needed a vet. It had growled when Larry had entered into the homeless man’s inner sanctum, a roughly constructed area bordered on one side by a shopping trolley overladen with at least one hundred plastic bags tied to it, holding whatever the man had picked up. Larry could make out scraps of food, old clothing, and a collection of broken toys, the refuse that most households discarded as worthless. The police officer knew there was no point in asking why the old man felt the need to collect rubbish. A person who slept on the street when there was accommodation to be had could only be eccentric or deluded. And the man that he was talking to, he was probably both, not that the dog seemed to care. It was just happy to make itself comfortable on a piece of old cardboard, ensuring that it took the lion’s share of the warm air coming from the railway station.
‘That’s Bert,’ the old man said. ‘He’s not stupid, knows when he’s got a good thing.’
‘Big Greg?’ Larry asked.
‘He used to read to me sometimes.’
‘What did he read?’
‘Anything that I had. I’ve a few books.’
‘You’ve plenty of everything here,’ Larry said. He was attempting to move away from the smell, but it was everywhere. Either it was the dog or the man, but then there were also the old bags, even some rotting bananas visible in one corner of the trolley.
‘I always had a few books in case Big Greg came around.’
‘Did he sleep here?’
‘Sometimes, but most times he’d be under the bridge. They’ve got a fire down there, but I like to be alone.’
‘What else do you know about Big Greg?’
‘He doesn’t like to talk about himself, I know that.’
‘How about you? What’s your story?’
‘Life’s easy, no bills to pay.’
Larry realised that the man showed the signs of alcohol abuse, a bottle in a paper bag nearby. ‘Will Big Greg be there?’ he asked.
‘Is he in trouble?’
‘You’ve heard about Bob Robertson?’
‘Him down at the hostel?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t like Bert.’
‘Does that mean you never stay there?’
‘I take the meals, not that they’re much.’
‘Everyone else says they’re fine.’
‘Maybe, but I have to sit out on the street with Bert. No way they’d let him in.’
‘There are rules, government rules, not only Bob Robertson’s.’
‘What need have I for rules? Bert doesn’t cause any trouble.’
Larry realised that the conversation with the man and his dog was going nowhere fast, and it was typical of others he had had. An unwritten rule out on the street, you minded your own business.
***
Big Greg knew that whatever happened the future was not safe either for him or his family. That morning, the third time in the one we
ek, he had observed his daughter from across the road where she lived. He had wanted to tell her that he was her father, but he knew that was not possible. Her safety, as that of her mother, lay in their ignorance. For him, he could see no hope. He faced a dilemma.
There had been a progression in his life through childhood, then academia, and then a position with the government research department. As he observed his daughter fussing over her child, his granddaughter, he could see that it should have been different.
To work for the government on such a project had been inspirational, exciting, a great benefit to mankind, but what had it become, and why? He had been determined to take the project to the next level, to discover the solution that would ease the suffering of millions, but it was the men in uniform who had seen another use.
He had surfed the internet at Robertson’s hostel using the computer in the cafeteria. It was there for all to use – he knew how to conceal the IP address – and it was old and slow, and the mouse barely worked, but it had been good enough for him to keep a check on the scientific papers related to the subject, and by those who had formed part of the team. Dullards the lot of them in his estimation, and judging by the quality of their papers none had acquired the additional intellect to complete the solution, a solution that remained hidden in his head and in a secret place that only he knew. If that fool Robertson had not been so nosy, he’d still be alive.
Big Greg knew that his death had been necessary. If one man had to die to save the lives of millions, then the cost was acceptable. If others had to die as well, then he would do what was right. It was a philosophy that had allowed him to endure the deprivation of the street, the foul smell that he oozed, the scratchy beard and the unruly hair, both which he wanted to remove. He knew that when the time came, he would do that, and he would reveal himself to his daughter and finally hold his granddaughter. His wife, he knew, was long gone, married to another man after he had been declared missing, presumed dead.
He wanted to talk to her again, to apologise for the hurt he had caused her, to explain his reasons, but that would not be possible. Those that had tortured him would be back, he knew that, and this time, they would be more violent than before. He had to protect his family.
***
‘It makes no sense,’ Katrina Ireland said. ‘I need it to run this place and now someone’s stolen it.’
Isaac had come at her request. He could see what she meant. The computer in the small office was missing, although the monitor was still there.
‘I don’t know why anyone would want it. It was old, not worth anything. All it had were the financial records, the ordering details on it. I’m stuck without it.’
‘Can’t it be replaced?’ Isaac asked. He understood the difficulty the woman faced.
‘I suppose so, but it’s not so easy to replace the information.’
Isaac wasn’t sure why she had asked him to come. It seemed more a job for a uniform. ‘It must have been someone staying here,’ he said.
‘I know it wasn’t.’
‘How?’
‘I saw who took it.’
‘Who?’
I don’t know who he was. I saw him as I was coming back from the shops. The man was dressed in a suit.’
‘Did you run after him?’
‘I tried to, but he jumped into a car and drove off.’
‘What else can you tell me?’
‘That’s it. What would a man like that want with an old computer?’ Katrina said.
‘I don’t know, but it seems important. What was on it, apart from details about the hostel?’
‘Nothing much. I didn’t use it apart from surfing a few websites and ordering for the hostel.’
‘What did you surf?’
‘I only repeated what Bob had entered in. Some formulas, that’s all. I’ve no idea what they meant, but they seemed to be important.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They’re in an old notebook.’
‘Do you have it?’
The hostel manager – the title she preferred now, after the local businessmen and the church had endorsed her taking over from Bob Robertson – opened a locked drawer in the desk. She withdrew a notebook and gave it to Isaac.
‘It might be important,’ Isaac said.
‘If you can understand it,’ Katrina Ireland replied. ‘It means nothing to me.’
‘We’ve someone back at the station who’s good with computers. She’ll make some sense of it.’
***
Larry Hill finally returned to Challis Street Police Station, poured himself a coffee, heavy on the sugar, and sat down in Isaac’s office. He had a resigned look on his face.
‘What is it?’ Isaac asked.
‘The man’s not around.’ There was no need to elaborate on who Larry was referring to.
‘I’m told he was always down at the hostel, but I can’t remember ever seeing him,’ Isaac said.
‘Big Greg is a mystery,’ Larry said. ‘Everyone I met, and they all knew him, admitted that he was a strange character, and judging by the people I’ve met over the last few days, he’d not only be strange, he’d be off the planet.’
‘That bad?’
‘There are some sad cases out there, but Big Greg doesn’t seem to be one of them. For one thing, the man never drank or smoked, and he’d sit quietly by himself, reciting poetry.’
‘What sort of poetry?’ Isaac asked.
‘None that any of those I spoke to know.’
‘Important?’
‘It depends on what it was, I suppose. One of the men recited a few lines of one, “half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of death rode the six hundred”. I remember it vaguely from school,’ Larry said.
Bridget poked her head around the door. ‘“Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns! he said: Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.” Alfred, Lord Tennyson, it’s the opening verse from his poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” Surely, you must know it,’ she said smugly before retiring to her desk, a smile on her face.
‘I knew it,’ Isaac said.
‘I’ll defer to your seniority,’ Larry replied, knowing full well that his DCI did not know it either.
‘What does it tell us about the man?’ Isaac said. ‘I’ve heard it mentioned before that he would recite poetry, and that he was highly educated.’
‘It doesn’t tell us much, other than his reasons to be out on the street must be severe. No one else out there could recite poetry to me, although one told me that he had been a schoolteacher until the alcohol had destroyed him.’
‘Bitter about it, was he?’
‘Too far gone to care. He’ll be another one they’ll pick up stiff as a board before too long.’
‘Anything else you can tell us about Big Greg, a name possibly?’ Isaac asked.
‘I checked with the job centre, some of the other welfare organisations.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. Some of them knew of the man, unmistakable according to those who’d seen him, but none could ever remember him crossing their threshold, hands out at the ready.’
‘Is that how they see those seeking assistance?’
‘Some do. One of the women at a welfare centre down in Holland Park was quite vocal on the subject, saw most of them as a waste of space.’
‘It’s hardly the appropriate attitude of someone in welfare,’ Isaac said.
‘That’s what I thought, but then she’d probably had a rough day. Apparently, some of them can become belligerent, demanding their rights, unwilling to do anything in return, and, as she said, once they’ve got the money, they’re out buying drugs or drink, but no food or medicine.’
‘What did she say about Big Greg?’
‘She’d spoken to him once, when he came in with another homeless man; helped him with the paperwork, dealt with the questions that she had asked of him.’
‘Did she get a name for Big Greg?’
&nbs
p; ‘She said he wouldn’t give it, and there was no way she could force it. He wasn’t looking for a handout.’
‘The other man was, I assume.’
‘Precisely. His paperwork was in order, even if the man wasn’t. Big Greg dealt with the objections, clarified his friend’s position and walked out of there with the additional assistance.’
‘Big Greg take anything?’
‘According to the lady, he asked for nothing, took nothing, and shook her hand at the conclusion, not that she appreciated it.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve heard the stories. The man’s hygiene was questionable.’
‘Okay, no name, but what could she tell you?’
‘She had to admit that he was a cultured man and that he spoke well.’
‘Polite?’
‘Exceedingly, according to the woman, and that he had studied the requirements, understood the responsibility of his friend if the money was to be given, explained it to him, even if he did not understand it.’
‘This man’s disappearance is suspicious,’ Isaac said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘What do you think?’
‘The man does not like questions being asked about him, he’s not taking money from the government and any welfare organisation, and his real name is a mystery.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘The man, for whatever reason, does not want to be found.’
‘He’s hiding out somewhere.’
‘We need to find where.’
‘He’s still our primary suspect, hidden or otherwise. What do we need to do to find him?’
‘Keep looking.’
‘That’s what you’ve been doing, you and Wendy.’
‘It’s not so easy when the man moves around, doesn’t draw money from anywhere.’
‘He must have some money,’ Isaac said.
‘Why? He could feed himself from Bob Robertson’s hostel, from a rubbish bin around the back of a restaurant late at night if he wanted to, and as for clothing, he only changed it when it fell off his back. Although, from what I’ve been able to find out, it was probably welded to him anyway.’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 110