‘Nothing complicated. Just an internet connection and Skype. I could be outside your door, or a hundred miles away, and you’ll never know.’
‘Malcolm, this is ridiculous. You need professional help,’ Barrow said. He had closed the blinds in his office. Sue Christie was sitting across from him, listening in on the conversation. She was worried.
‘I have a list,’ Big Greg said. ‘If any harm comes to my family, then I will kill you, Ed.’
‘No harm will come to them. You have my word.’
‘The word of a liar. What use is that? Tell Sue not to take out any life insurance. She has no protection.’ The phone line went dead.
‘You should have killed him when you had the chance,’ Sue Christie said.
‘How was I to know that he was going to come back from the dead?’ Barrow replied.
‘You always knew he was alive. You could have found him.’
‘How? The man’s been watching this office, and we’ve no idea where he is. Find that camera he’s using.’
‘Look at your laptop,’ Sue said.
‘Hell, the camera’s on.’
‘The man was always smarter than any of us, you know that. He’s probably accessed your files as well.’
Barrow looked down at his laptop, a cartoon face looked back at him. It spoke. ‘Remember what I told you. Any harm to my family and you’re the first.’
Barrow slammed shut the lid of his laptop. ‘We’ve got the best hacking protection. How did he do that?’
‘The same way he’ll kill any of us if we touch his family, your family.’
***
Big Greg, after his conversation with Ed Barrow, sat in the park opposite his daughter’s place. He knew that at two-thirty in the afternoon she would enter the park by the far gate. His daughter, he knew, was a methodical person, the same as him. It had been how he had dealt with eleven years on the street: one day at a time, the same place for a meal, the same repartee, the same place to bed down.
He knew that Barrow had been correct. He could have just given them what they wanted and gone home to his family. They had intended to use his work for evil, to sell it to the highest bidder, good or bad. He had researched the subject, read up on the wars in the Middle East. Where did they get the weapons that were fired at the English, the Americans, the Russians sometimes? They all came from those countries, sold in some arms deal only to be used against the seller in return.
He was not going to be a party to that, whatever the cost. Hadn’t his parents died on holiday in Egypt when visiting the Middle East twenty years previously, and what had it been: an English-made missile launched at a police station that hit them as they were catching the bus to the pyramids. He had vowed then that he would do everything in his power to prevent such an occurrence happening again, and now his family was threatened. He knew Ed Barrow, he knew Sue Christie, and he certainly knew the old man, Harold Hutton. He’d been there, standing in the shadows with Ed Barrow, when he was being tortured by Arbuthnot and the other man, the man he had killed in his escape.
He would deal with Hutton to reinforce what he had said to Barrow.
Across the park, Big Greg could see his daughter. She was playing with her child. Little did she know that a man who was plainly in her vision if she only looked his way was protecting her.
Big Greg stood up from the bench he had been sitting on, quickly read the plaque attached to it: Dedicated to Mary, by her loving husband Michael. He felt sad on reading the remembrance of a man for his wife, knowing that he would never have that luxury. He was aware that the road ahead was rocky and would be strewn with casualties. He just needed to ensure that they were the ones he chose.
Chapter 14
There were days when Isaac Cook wondered if it was worth it. His team were working at full stretch, following all the procedures, and still receiving criticism about what they were doing, or at least, what he was doing.
He knew he was working hard, although there were three murders unresolved and one murderer still at large. It was as if Big Greg was playing them for fools. Wendy was now confident that his first name was Malcolm, after another homeless man had told her that he had once said that was his name. The board in the Homicide department now had a picture of Malcolm pinned up alongside a description of Big Greg, as well as a grainy photo that had been taken from a CCTV camera close to Arbuthnot’s house. Not that the picture had helped much, as the man’s face was not visible, concealed as it was under a baseball cap.
And to top it off, Commissioner Davies was paying a visit to Challis Street. That was not unusual in itself, as the man made a point of visiting one or two of his stations every month, but Isaac knew that it was not purely social, an attempt at rallying the troops or boosting morale – although that was pretty low in Homicide at the present time.
There had been another murder, this time Harold Hutton, a man well known in government circles, an advocate for scientific research. His throat had been cut. When the news had come through, Isaac realised that there’d be hell to pay.
Larry had been first on the scene after Hutton’s wife had found the body. Gordon Windsor had quickly identified the cause of death, or at least the implement, a razor-sharp knife, the sort that can be purchased in any high-quality kitchen shop.
‘Violent,’ Gordon Windsor’s only comment as he knelt close to the body. A pool of blood was settling on the floor, the gash in the man’s neck visible, a clear sign that his head had been yanked back to intensify his distress as his life oozed from him.
Wendy had been in the office when the phone call came through. She was out at the crime scene no more than five minutes after Larry. She took one look at the body and retreated. ‘The murderer?’ she asked Larry when he came out ten minutes later.
‘Our friend.’
‘Conclusive?’
‘Windsor will confirm, but it looks to be him.’
‘The super’s going to be peeved with this. The man was a member of parliament.’
‘Have you phoned DCI Cook?’
‘He knows,’ Wendy replied.
‘Not the best day for this to happen, is it?’
‘I can’t see how our DCI can head Commissioner Davies off on this one. That’s three murders now, and we’re no closer to solving the case.’
‘Hutton had cameras in the house. We’re checking now.’
‘Would Big Greg have known that?’
‘Probably not, they’re well concealed.’
‘Who told you about them?’
‘His wife. She’s in the next room.’
‘We’d better talk to her.’
It was a large house that reflected the status of the man. He was a vocal defender of the need for more money to be spent in the area of scientific research. Larry knew him as a blowhard, always sounding off on the television about his own importance. Wendy had seen him once or twice, always switched over to another channel. She remembered that the man had had an irritating, whining voice; it always reminded her of a foghorn, its handle slowly being cranked.
Hutton’s wife sat in a chair in a room apparently reserved for guests, not used otherwise. A policewoman sat with her, the family doctor administering care. ‘She’s suffered a relapse, a minor heart attack,’ he said.
Wendy looked at the expression on the woman’s face. It was clear that she was not conscious of her surroundings. Wendy had seen the same look on her mother’s face when she was dying. The doctor, a short man, pudgy around the waist, bald, had been kind in his estimation of his patient’s condition. ‘We’ll not get anything out of Mrs Hutton,’ Wendy said to Larry.
‘When can we talk to Mrs Hutton?’ Larry asked the doctor.
‘Her condition is terminal. Her son and daughter are on their way over.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?’ Wendy asked.
‘It’s too late for that, and besides, I’ve known the family for years. This is where they’d choose for her to pass away, next to her husband.’
> ‘Have you seen Mr Hutton?’ Larry asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Don’t then. There’s not much you can do in there.’
‘It’s what’s caused the relapse. I thought she’d last another few months, but the shock…’
Larry and Wendy left the room and walked out of the front door of the house. The usual crowd was forming, smartphones at the ready, recording every event. Wendy thought them ghoulish, or maybe they didn’t know what had happened in the house.
‘We should be able to put a name to the murderer now,’ Larry said. It was early afternoon, and the two police officers were meant to be at Challis Street for the visit of Alwyn Davies, not that either of them had any great desire to meet him. Wendy saw nothing to be gained for her: her retirement was approaching, and the rank of sergeant was as far as she was going to go. Larry still harboured hopes of making a chief inspector once Isaac moved on, and he had been attempting to study, ensure he had more qualifications to back up his promotion, although he was not too keen on meeting the commissioner. He had run across him once before at a course, where the new commissioner, as Davies was then, had given a rousing speech about modern policing, the need to maintain cordial relations with the general public, and above all to be professional. Davies’s speech had been well received; all those attending had shaken his hand, had the obligatory photo taken with him. At the time, Larry had thought him to be a breath of fresh air, the sort of person to shake up the stuffy and regimented police force. However, since joining the Challis Street Homicide team he’d re-evaluated Davies, and after the DCI Caddick incident, where Caddick had temporarily occupied Isaac Cook’s seat, he had decided that Commissioner Alwyn Davies was tarred with the same brush as they all were: looking out for those who sucked up to them, discarding those who just got on with their jobs.
‘DCI Cook will need our support,’ Wendy said. Larry knew that she had a soft spot for the man, young enough to be her son. He had to admit that his admiration for Isaac had grown by leaps and bounds ever since he had brought him into the department. At his other station, he had been dealing with a senior who wanted his people to show him the necessary deference, even when the man, a moderate performer, did not justify it. But Isaac Cook gave his team the direction they needed, was willing to listen to suggestions, as well as criticism if valid, and supported them at every opportunity.
‘Let’s go,’ Larry said. The commissioner was due in the next thirty minutes, and he knew he’d be making a beeline for Homicide.
***
It was one of Gordon Windsor’s team that found suitable quality fingerprints. For the previous two murders, there had been no proof, other than poor-quality fingerprints, of who had committed the act. But imprinted in Harold Hutton’s blood, a set of fingerprints that could be used. The crime scene team took special care in making a copy and uploading it to a laptop.
‘We’re running a check on the fingerprints,’ Windsor said on the phone to Isaac. The DCI could tell that the man was excited. Down the corridor, no more than five minutes away from Homicide, the foreboding presence of the commissioner. Isaac had seen Davies before, never met him, and he did not like the look of him. He thought the man looked devious and menacing, although Isaac wasn’t sure if that was his own prejudice. Regardless, the commissioner was about to come in the door, and his department was on its best behaviour: files correctly labelled, everyone at their desk, casually glancing at the man who could make their lives miserable, although his tenure in the job was shaky. Another terrorist attack, foiled this time, had saved him for another day, but the media, always desperate for someone to blame, had chosen Alwyn Davies.
The man who walked into Homicide, midway between Fraud and Administration, was initially pleasant. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook, pleased to meet you,’ Davies said as he shook Isaac’s hand. Alongside the man stood Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard, resplendent in his police officer’s uniform, the gold rings around the cuffs of his jacket.
‘One of our best,’ Goddard said. Isaac could see the signs between the commissioner and his DCS: the frowning, the raising of an eye, the subtle hand gestures. It was clear that Goddard was trying his best, but Davies was not biting.
‘There’s been a few problems, DCI,’ Davies said. It was evident the man did not intend to leave in a hurry.
Bridget came over. ‘A cup of tea, Commissioner?’ she asked.
‘Don’t mind if I do, milk, two sugars,’ the man’s reply. Isaac was annoyed; he had been trying to keep the visit short, and there was Bridget playing hostess, aiming to get through to the man with a cup of tea. Goddard continued to act as though he was interested in what Davies had to say.
‘Harold Hutton?’ Davies said. It was clear that the man was well informed, further confirmation that someone was slipping him updates. ‘You’ve got a decent set of fingerprints.’
‘We’re attempting a match,’ Isaac said.
‘The man’s been giving you the runaround,’ Davies said. He was holding his cup of tea in one hand and had sat down at one of the desks. Down the corridor, the other recipients of his visit to Challis Street waited. Isaac had seen them out of the corner of his eye. He’s not here for you, he thought.
‘That’s true,’ Isaac said. Best act of defence, Isaac thought, was to defer to the man’s superior wisdom.
‘So what are you doing?’
‘We’ve an all points out on the man.’
‘But you don’t know who he is.’
‘He’s changed his appearance, and why he was living as a tramp for so many years makes no sense.’
‘Hutton’s going to make a difference. I’m going to be asked to give answers about what we are doing to catch his murderer,’ Davies said.
‘It’s not common knowledge yet.’
‘It is where it matters. I knew the man, can’t say I liked him, but he had influence, even if his politics were suspect.’
‘That’s as maybe, Commissioner, but we can only work on evidence. We’ll place special focus on the man’s death, bring in extra people if needed,’ Isaac said. Goddard visibly shrank at Isaac’s faux pas.
‘I’d say they are needed now,’ Davies said.
‘I’ve complete confidence in DCI Cook and his team,’ Goddard said.
‘That’s what you said when that mad woman was on the loose, and what happened there? How many did she kill? Nine or ten?’
‘We stopped her in the end.’ Isaac attempted to defend himself and the department.
‘Only because I acted and brought in DCI Caddick. That man sharpened you up.’
Isaac could feel the tension building in him. Not only was the commissioner singing the praises of the singularly charmless DCI Caddick, but it was also clear that he, as the commissioner, had taken the credit for ending the infamous reign of Charlotte Hamilton, a serial killer without parallel in the last fifteen years.
‘I’d beg to differ, Commissioner,’ Isaac said. He knew that he could not sit silent and allow the man to take the credit when his team were nearby, listening in to the conversation.
‘Beg as much as you like, Caddick made the difference. How many has this man killed now?’
‘Three.’
‘I’m not going to let this go as far as ten.’
‘We’re sure we’ll have him soon,’ Goddard said. ‘I’ve every confidence.’
‘That’s what you said last time, and I let you carry on. Believe me, this time I’ll act. One more murder and I’ll bring in Caddick. That man knows how to get results.’
Davies stood up and walked out of the door. Isaac noticed him ignore the other departments as he strolled along the corridor. Within two minutes, he had left the building.
‘He’s not a bundle of fun, is he?’ Larry said.
‘He’s still the man who controls our fate,’ Isaac replied.
Goddard returned to the department. ‘We’ve got to head this man off at the pass,’ he said.
‘Diplomacy’s not his stro
ng point,’ Isaac said.
‘The hatchets are out for him. He doesn’t need to indulge in diplomacy, only to get the results. And if that means all of us, he’ll not hesitate to chop us off at the knees.’
‘But Caddick?’
‘The commissioner’s playing a strategic game. If he replaces the heads of departments, places the blame on them, he’ll gain a honeymoon period; gives him another three months.’
‘The end result will be worse.’
‘Isaac, you’d not make it as a politician if you can’t see what he’s up to. The man’s protecting himself, the results are dispensable.’
‘He shouldn’t be in his position then.’
‘An admirable sentiment. Naïve, but admirable. Besides, let’s not give him a chance to act. What do you have?’
Larry and Wendy, as well as Bridget, had been present when Isaac and their DCS had had their conversation, a clear sign that Goddard trusted them.
‘We’ll wait to see if we have a fingerprint match,’ Larry said.
‘And if they don’t match.’
‘We’re compiling a dossier of Harold Hutton’s associates,’ Isaac said.
‘The man must have had plenty,’ Goddard replied.
‘We realise that; that’s why we’ll cross-reference them against known associates of George Arbuthnot.’
‘Bob Robertson?’
‘That seems circumstantial. We may be wrong there, but Robertson had no government involvement and no association to Arbuthnot.’
‘What’s with this Arbuthnot?’ Goddard asked.
‘We believe that he was trading arms under the auspices of the British Government.’
‘You know what that means?’
‘Powerful friends. It’s not the first time we’ve been there, is it?’ Isaac said.
‘Not the first time, and every time it gets mucky and dangerous. Are we opening something we might not be able to close?’ Goddard asked.
Isaac could see the worry in the man’s face. Yet again, he, they, were about to be thrust from a murder inquiry into involvement with the government, and each time that happened the death count went up, and not always at the hand of the primary suspect.
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