The others, who had set up the research team, convincing in their argument that their results would only be used for peaceful purposes, yet knowing full well that its funding was military, deserved special treatment.
But even if he completed his task, would it be sufficient to ensure that no one would attempt to solve the technical problems, whether in England or overseas? People were becoming more educated, and computers more capable of processing the millions of computations that would be required, and there was no way the military in his country or any other would ever acquiesce to his request to leave well alone.
It had been only eleven years on the street, yet when he looked in the mirror he saw an old man. He looked at the picture of himself that he had carried in that old coat for so many years: a photo of him with his wife and daughter. Then he had been a young man, fit and robust with a healthy tan, but now his skin was weakened, his features not so well defined. He knew that if he stood in front of his wife, she would not instantly recognise him, nor would her husband, one of those that he needed to kill. For her sake, he did not want to, but there were more important considerations.
Big Greg decided that his wife’s husband would be next. He took a beer from the fridge, a luxury he had denied himself on the street. He opened the bottle and took a swig, the first of many that night. He turned on the television; a mind-numbing movie of no great worth, but for once, nonsense was better than the reality. For that evening, he would forget.
Chapter 11
Wendy had finally had some success. For a police officer with a formidable reputation inside Challis Street Police Station, as well as in the other stations in the area, her inability to trace Big Greg had been an embarrassment to her.
Isaac had told her to keep looking and to ignore the occasionally barbed jibe in her direction, as Isaac knew they were obliquely directed at him. The eloquent black man was the bane of one or two of the older inhabitants of the police station who still harboured attitudes not in line with society in general. Isaac had learnt to deal with them, but now there was some deflection onto those who supported him. No doubt admirers of Commissioner Davies, he assumed, a man who did not conceal his dislikes too well, and a man anxious to get DCI Caddick back into Challis Street. The last Isaac had heard of the man he was assigned to a regional police station to the north of London and generally upsetting those he worked for, as well as producing limited results. But somehow Caddick continued to prosper, and the last word was that he was likely to make superintendent within the next six months, a clear sign that friends in high places were always beneficial.
Isaac assumed it was the result of sucking up to seniors you neither liked nor respected. He was glad he didn’t have to do it. If he didn’t like someone, he was not good at pretending, but Goddard was, although the results were not good for him. The man had been passed over for the rank of commander on more than one occasion; the usual reasons given were budgets, experience, age.
Politics did not only have a place in the Houses of Parliament; they were also alive and well in the Met, an august organisation that prided itself on its fair-mindedness, its willingness to bring in all colours, all religions, all genders, even those who were openly gay. Not that Isaac minded, as he had prospered due to the political correctness, but he had noticed the percentages of those being promoted who were deemed not to be Anglo-Saxon and white had slipped under Davies’s watch. It was only fractional, but Isaac kept a watch on such issues, knowing full well that if Davies were not there, then Goddard would take the next rung up the ladder towards commissioner, and he, Isaac Cook, would almost certainly make superintendent, then commander, and ultimately commissioner.
It was only four years previously that he had been shown on publicity promotions to join the modern police force. There he had been, his beaming face proudly proclaiming that the Met embraced all people and that he was committed to the organisation, yet now he sometimes felt that he did not belong. Still, he had no intention of complaining, and there was a murder investigation to conclude.
‘What have you found?’ Isaac asked. It was early afternoon, and the team were in the office. Typically, Isaac would have expected everyone to be out or working in the office on related activities, but Wendy had been adamant that they should get together.
‘I’ve found where Big Greg went to after leaving Katrina Ireland.’ Isaac could see that Wendy was pleased with herself when she announced the news.
‘How?’ Larry asked. He’d been looking, as well as checking into George Arbuthnot’s background. Yet again, it had been Wendy who had made the breakthrough.
‘I just kept widening the search area. It’s further away than I thought.’
‘Where and what did you find out?’ Isaac asked. Wendy had had her moment of glory, now they needed the details.
‘He checked into a hostel in Croydon. It’s definitely him, as the description fits, and the person in charge recognised him from some years before. It seems that our man is unmistakable, but then we already knew that.’
‘Then what?’
‘Big Greg checked in, but he never checked out.’
‘What do you mean?’ Larry asked.
‘He went up to the first floor of the building. He was carrying a small case with him. He showered, supposedly used all the hot water, and left wearing different clothes.’
‘Clothes from the case?’ Isaac asked.
‘No one saw him leave.’
‘If no one saw him leave, then how do you know he changed his clothes?’
‘He dumped the old clothes he had been wearing into a bin outside, that’s how.’
‘Do we have a new description for the man?’
‘I’m working on that. But for now, we’re not looking for a tramp.’
‘Almost impossible to find, apart from the unkempt hair and beard.’
‘There’s a barber’s shop not far from the hostel,’ Wendy said.
‘He’s cut it off?’
‘The only reason the man remembered was the condition of the hair and beard. He didn’t give me much other than he had trimmed the beard, cut the hair very short.’
‘Clothing? Did the man give you a description?’
‘No. He just remembered the hair, that’s all.’
‘And the case?’ Isaac asked.
‘He left it at the hostel. It wasn’t there when I got there, but that’s not surprising. Anyone could have taken it.’
‘Our all points warning is no longer relevant, is it?’
‘No, but it helps with finding out who visited George Arbuthnot.’
***
Two men met. One of them was in his late forties and dressed in a suit, the other man, older but still fit, lounged in a chair. Neither of the two men liked the other, but that was not important. What was important was the death of George Arbuthnot, and its significance.
‘He’s back,’ the suited man said.
‘We always assumed he was dead.’ The lounging man raised himself from his chair. It was late at night, and they did not meet often. He was holding a beer in one hand.
‘I always believed that he had faked his death.’
‘What do you mean? Are you telling me that you have always regarded his death as suspicious?’
‘There was never any body.’
‘All the evidence pointed to his death.’
‘The man held out against Arbuthnot and then managed to escape. It’s hardly the behaviour of someone about to commit suicide.’
‘And now that Arbuthnot’s dead, you’re assuming it’s him?’
‘Why not? The man may have been brilliant, but he was borderline psychotic. Genius level intellect bordering on madness. He’d not be the first one to flip.’
‘I’ll grant you that Arbuthnot’s death was violent, but why let us know that he’s back? He must have realised that we’d go looking for him.’
‘Maybe he has, or maybe he’s not thought it through.’
‘Whatever happens, we need to draw him
out.’
‘His family?’
‘Go for the daughter. He was always fond of her.’
***
Big Greg walked past the place where he had worked. He wore a baseball cap, and he had pulled up the collar of his jacket. He had seen those who concerned him, but he knew that they were only the minor functionaries. There were others more senior that concerned him more.
Others who had given the order for him to be detained and for the truth to be extracted at all costs. A smart man, he knew that what he had started he had to conclude. Until then, nobody was safe. He reconsidered his position, took stock of his current financial status, and the time he’d allotted to complete his plan.
He knew that he was endangering his family and that they must be protected at all times. His analytical brain could see the pros and cons, the percentage for and against a particular action. Arbuthnot’s death would have raised an alarm, although they would not be certain that it was him.
Hadn’t he covered his tracks well, ensured that his death was indisputable? In the eleven years that he had remained hidden, his family had not been harmed, and now he had to kill his wife’s lover. He did not want to do it, knew that he had to.
In the meantime, there were others that needed to be dealt with. All the links to what he had discovered had to be severed, all possibility of anyone finding the solution to his research. Only then would it be safe, only then could he discard his clothes and walk out into the cold sea. He knew that once all the loose ends had been dealt with, he would have to die. There was always another one like Arbuthnot who would not hesitate to subject him to pain, to force him to give them the knowledge he had in his mind. And there were others in government and the military who would not hesitate to give the order, men who remained nameless, hidden behind doors, not wanting to be confronted with the reality of extraction, only the result.
Big Greg remembered the military men who had spoken to the research director. First, he had to protect his family, but how would he contact them? Would they listen to a man from the past? Would his daughter understand, or would his wife realise that the truth of the man she now loved was that he was no more than a charlatan and he deserved to die?
The thoughts bubbled through the man’s mind as he weighed up the situation, knowing full well that the burden placed on him was too much.
Big Greg found a café and ordered a café latte. He entered a phone number into the mobile phone that he had purchased. It was nothing special, not a smartphone, but it could make calls, even receive them, but no one had his number. The phone was answered, a woman’s voice could be heard. ‘Gwen Barrow.’
At the sound of the voice, a voice he had not heard for a long time, Big Greg hung up. She’s taken his name, he thought. The name of the man that I must kill.
He sat there silently for several minutes, recollecting when they had first met, he and Gwen. They had both been young and idealistic. He was fresh out of university, she was already forging a career as an accountant. They had been happy years, enhanced by the arrival of their daughter, a cheerful, cherubic little girl with a lovely smile, even as a baby.
They had loved the child equally, but he was always her favourite, not that it worried Gwen. He still loved Gwen, he knew that, even if he could not bear to hear her voice again, knowing that another man had loved her after him.
He had seen the anguish, the sorrow on her face after he had drowned, although no body had ever been found. He had been pleased, at least for his wife, that after two years of mourning she had started to enjoy life again, and Ed Barrow had been a good father to his daughter, a loving husband to his wife.
Ed had been a colleague, and he had thought him to be a good man, but then he had seen him with the military men.
Big Greg wondered why he had waited so long to act. His wife’s husband, his daughter’s stepfather, was one of those responsible for the treatment that had been meted out to him, the reason that he had vanished for so many years, the reason why he now plotted Barrow’s death.
He needed to explain to Gwen, he knew that, but how would he tell her? Would she believe him or would she believe the man that she had married, the man that she apparently loved, but it could not be the way she had loved him. At least, he hoped it wasn’t, but they always seemed to be comfortable in each other’s presence. And as for his daughter, she had accepted the man who had married her mother, the man who had allowed her father to be tortured, the man who had sold out their research for the betterment of mankind to the military, knowing that they would use it for violence.
How would his wife deal with that realisation? Would his daughter be capable of understanding? He knew they would not.
Big Greg moved on, his destination unclear. Again he walked past the building where he had worked. He peered through the glass pane of the front door. Inside nothing had changed. There was the man at the desk checking passes, giving the courtesy ‘good morning’, ‘good afternoon’, ‘see you tomorrow’. The urge to enter through the door was irresistible. He pushed against it, it opened, and he walked inside. He still wore the baseball cap and the jacket with the upturned collar. He took out a pair of prescription glasses to complete the disguise that had been in their case. He put them on; they were too weak, and the man at the desk was a blur.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ the man asked. Big Greg recognised the voice. It was the same man who had worked there all those years previously.
‘No thanks. I think I’ve entered the wrong building.’ Big Greg left. The man had not recognised him, maybe his wife wouldn’t, maybe Ed Barrow wouldn’t either.
Chapter 12
Larry Hill had to admit that the day had started well. It was still early, and there was a full-scale murder enquiry in place, the chance to indulge in an English breakfast at his favourite café in Notting Hill. He knew his wife would be upset, but he wouldn’t be home before ten that evening.
The waitress had not needed to ask for his order; she knew what he wanted, it was always the same: two eggs, the same number of sausages, some bacon and toast, and freshly-brewed coffee to wash it down. ‘Busy day?’ she asked.
‘The usual,’ Larry’s reply.
‘Another murder?’
‘What else.’
‘Don’t you ever get upset with seeing dead bodies?’ the waitress asked. Larry remembered how she had looked when he had told her about the dismembered corpse they’d fished out of the canal in a previous case. No doubt she would be able to manage his description of Arbuthnot with wire tight around his neck better than his description of a headless body, but he did not intend to find out.
‘You get used to it,’ he said instead.
After he had finished his breakfast, and he had drunk his third cup of coffee, he left the café and headed over to Arbuthnot’s house. A uniform stood outside, the crime scene tape across the door. Larry showed his identification, a formality as the two men knew each other.
Gordon Windsor and his team had been over the house, and apart from the room where the murder had occurred, there was no other evidence apart from signs of a struggle in the hall. Larry put gloves on. He climbed the stairs to the first floor of the terrace house, unsure of what he was looking for, other than some insight into who the man had been.
All they had found out so far was that the man had been a middle-ranking civil servant, that he had travelled a lot, and he appeared to have had no defined place of work. Isaac thought that he may have been MI5 or MI6, although that had been discounted for the present.
DCS Goddard had used his contacts; Isaac assumed it was Angus McTavish, the former government whip, now a lord, who had checked it out. If that was the case, then McTavish and the truth were not always mutually compatible, although in this case Isaac had been willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt.
But that was only because they did not know why Arbuthnot had been killed and who Big Greg was. Wendy was working on finding out more about Big Greg, as was Bridget on her computer, although
Larry thought that Arbuthnot was the key.
And why was Big Greg now visible, no longer a vagrant? He’d even been spotted by one of Arbuthnot’s neighbours according to a second door-to-door with the updated description of the man. Not that it helped much, as the man at Arbuthnot’s door had been tall, erect, with short hair. Apart from the tall, there wasn’t much to go on, no more than the barber in Croydon had been able to give.
Regardless, Larry was in the house methodically checking from room to room. He could have brought someone else with him, but Wendy was busy and the others in the department would have needed him to hold their hands, and he needed to focus. His wife phoned. ‘How’s the snack I prepared for you?’ she asked.
Larry felt some guilt, remembered the sad-looking piece of lettuce with tomato slices. ‘Great, thanks.’
‘Good, and don’t you go eating the wrong kinds of food, and no drinking beer. Tonight’s special, you know that.’
It was their wedding anniversary. He had forgotten, and now he had a murder case, a full breakfast, and a strong possibility that he would be phoning his wife again before the day was out, profusely apologising, knowing full well the reaction on the other end of the phone line. ‘See you later,’ he said.
His wife hung up; he went back to checking the house. The first floor revealed nothing of interest, only two bedrooms and a small study that the man had used for storing his golf clubs, a few empty suitcases.
He ascended the second flight of stairs and entered the main bedroom. Larry thought the man’s choice of decor was strange. Apart from a double bed in the centre of the room, there was not much else except for a zebra skin on the wall, one or two pictures of men in military uniform, although they looked old, and a table on one side of the bed. He opened the drawer of the table. Inside were a photo album, a mobile phone, and a list of names on a piece of paper. Larry took a picture of the items in situ. He then removed them and placed them in evidence bags. He’d get Bridget to check through them at Challis Street.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 114