DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Harold Hutton was into scientific research, not weapons,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Who do you think funds scientific research?’ Goddard said. ‘The man may have been interested in research for noble reasons, but he would have been a pragmatist; after all, he was a politician. If funding depended on directing research towards the military, he would have embraced it.’

  ‘Reluctantly?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Who knows? He could have been an ardent pacifist, or a man out for whatever he could for his own interests, not caring at what cost. You can research him, although you’ll probably not find very much dirt on him. For whatever reason, your tramp thought that he should die, and unless Hutton’s death is purely random, then he was in deep. Find the link between Hutton and Arbuthnot, and you’ll find your murderer.’

  Chapter 15

  Ed Barrow was a worried man, and not only because he was married to Malcolm Woolston’s widow. If Arbuthnot and Hutton had died, then he’d be next. The solution to the dilemma was not clear. If he told his wife, Gwen, that the man was still alive, how would she react?

  Would she feel the need to transfer her emotions from him to her previous husband, Lazarus resurrected?

  Malcolm Woolston had been dead for over a decade; if he continued to stay dead, at least to his wife and daughter, then all would be well, but where was the man, and would he be capable of ordering his assassination? Barrow knew the answer to the question.

  It had been him that had co-signed the authorisation to detain his friend and subject him to the horrendous treatment that had been meted out to him. He had watched for some time, a morbid interest in the subjugation of one person by another. He had watched Arbuthnot and the other torturer hitting Woolston with all the force that he could muster, Arbuthnot standing close by, taking part when the first man took a break. It had only been three men in that room, the victim and the perpetrators, with a viewing hole in one wall.

  Barrow could not feel any sadness at the deaths of Arbuthnot and Hutton. One was a parasite who did the bidding of others, sold weapons to governments who would use them against their own people, against other countries, other religions. And then there was Hutton, sanctimonious, expansive in his support of scientific research for the betterment of the country, the betterment of mankind, willing to make deals with the military in exchange for their funding.

  It had not concerned Woolston initially, as he had believed the spiel put forward by Hutton, but he had soon sensed the ulterior motive, even spoken to Barrow about it on a few occasions. Back then, it had been Ed and Sue, Malcolm and Gwen. Sue still remained in the department, but Barrow could at least feel some pride that he had severed that relationship soon after Malcolm’s death.

  ***

  Gordon Windsor was in Isaac’s office. The commissioner had left, and a relative normality had returned to Challis Street Police Station. Isaac was pleased to see the crime scene examiner, a man he regarded as a friend, although his visits to the office were rare.

  ‘We’ve been able to match some of the fingerprints,’ Windsor said.

  ‘Great. There’s a name?’

  ‘No name, just a match.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All details of the fingerprint’s identity have been blocked on the database.’

  ‘Who could do that?’

  ‘It would need a court order, possible security implications.’

  ‘Any way to break it?’

  ‘Not a chance. The password would be encrypted. We’ll never get through.’

  ‘Your suggestion?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The man worked for the government. There’s a reference number. You’ve some influential contacts, people who operate behind the scenes.’

  ‘I know some, not sure if I trust them.’

  ‘You’ve no alternative. Either you get the password, or else I can’t get you a name.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll make a few phone calls.’

  Isaac sat down and considered the situation after Windsor had left. He knew that McTavish, the former government whip, had the contacts, could even get him an answer within hours, but he no longer trusted the man. His DCS would know some other people.

  Whatever way Isaac looked at it, he could see that obtaining the password had an inherent risk, possibly more damaging than the murders so far. Experience told him that once the security organisations become involved, MI5, MI6, then deaths start escalating. Some of those would become classified as well, possibly the three known murders too.

  Isaac phoned his DCS, explained the situation and the need to maintain confidentiality. He assumed that Goddard would contact McTavish, but there was no alternative; they needed a confirmed name for the murderer.

  Two hours later, Goddard phoned back with an update. ‘The password’s been removed.’

  ‘Angus McTavish?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve other contacts. Someone owed me a favour.’

  ‘He’ll keep quiet?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Isaac walked over to Bridget. He passed on the information, let her log on to Fingerprints as she was more computer savvy than him. ‘Malcolm Woolston,’ she said.

  ‘Is there an address?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘According to this, he died eleven years ago. Are you certain this man is the murderer?’

  ‘Any addresses?’

  ‘There’s one for where he worked.’

  ‘That’ll do. And update the all points. Do you have a photo?’

  ‘It’s old, but I’ll use it,’ Bridget said.

  ***

  Ed Barrow did not appreciate the presence of two police officers in his office. He had just made a phone call to resolve the problem, and now he was being questioned about the same subject. The situation was precarious, he knew that. One wrong word, one incorrect response, and the police would smell a rat. His best response, he thought, was to be as honest as he could while bypassing the details, claiming privileged knowledge, although he wasn’t sure if any of it would work.

  And then, what about his wife? What if she found out that her long-dead husband was back and he was killing people? Would she believe him, or would she believe the police? He had seen her looking at her first husband’s photo on more than one occasion; there was even a framed picture in their bedroom of father and daughter. The child had only been six months old then, and now she was married with a child of a similar age. What if the officers questioned her? What would she say? What could she say?

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook,’ Isaac said. He was glad to be out of the office. Wendy was chasing up on Malcolm Woolston’s whereabouts, working with Bridget to access bank accounts, driving licence records, anything that could give them a clue as to where the man was. Larry was with Isaac; both had shown their IDs.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Barrow asked.

  Isaac looked at the man before responding, aiming to get his measure: his body language, perspiration on the forehead, any tell-tale signs that the man was about to lie.

  ‘Malcolm Woolston,’ Isaac said, watching for the response.

  Too measured, too calculating, too calm, Isaac thought as he observed the man.

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve heard that name mentioned. The man’s dead; tragic accident.’

  ‘Accident? I thought it was suicide,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You’re right, a suicide. They only ever found his clothes and a clear indication that he had swum out from the beach.’

  ‘But no body?’

  ‘Why the interest? It’s been ten, eleven years.’

  ‘You should know; you married his widow.’

  ‘There’s a few years separation between the two events. Malcolm had been declared legally dead before we married.’

  ‘With no body?’

  ‘It’s all in the judge’s summation. The water temperature was close to freezing, the man would have succumbed to the cold within a short period of time, and there was an outgoing tide. The evidence was
not disputed.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘She was upset for a few years, but time moves on.’

  ‘And then you married her?’

  ‘You make it sound indecent. Malcolm and I were good friends, as was Gwen, my wife. It only seemed natural that I should be there for her; I even walked their daughter down the aisle some years later.’

  ‘Tell us about Malcolm Woolston,’ Larry said. He’d taken the opportunity to look around the office. It all seemed functional: a desk, Barrow’s chair with its back to the window, a bookcase in one corner, a computer terminal and a printer on another desk. The man apparently appreciated the finer things in life. On the wall was what appeared to be an original oil painting.

  ‘What do you do here?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We’re a small government-funded research department.’

  ‘What type of research?’

  ‘Some of it’s classified, but what’s this got to do with Malcolm?’

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Impossible,’ Barrow said, standing up from his chair.

  ‘We have proof.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He murdered George Arbuthnot and Harold Hutton. You do know both of these men?’

  ‘Well, yes. But why? And how do you know he’s alive? We’ve all believed him to be dead for years.’

  ‘Fingerprints.’

  ‘They can be faked, can’t they?’

  ‘You’re the scientist, you tell us,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I suppose so, but why?’

  ‘The evidence pointing to this department is indisputable. Whatever the reason for Arbuthnot and Hutton, whatever the reason for Woolston returning, the answers lie here.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is all too much for me to take in.’

  ‘We came here first. Woolston’s wife and daughter need to be told.’

  ‘Please, not yet. You can imagine the effect this will have on them. It may be best if I tell them.’

  ‘That is your prerogative, but we will need to talk to your wife soon.’

  ‘Give me two days.’

  ‘Coming back to Malcolm Woolston,’ Isaac said. ‘Why did he disappear?’

  ‘What do you know about the man?’ Barrow asked.

  ‘At this present moment, not a lot. We’re compiling a dossier. We know he was brilliant, with many academic papers to his name, and engineering and mathematics doctorates.’

  ‘The man was impressive. He was the smartest man I knew, and I’ve met a few over the years.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘You’ll find this out soon enough.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Malcolm Woolston was brilliant, and as with all brilliant men, he was subject to eccentricity.’

  ‘What sort of eccentricity?’

  ‘He was a genius level intellect bordering on madness. He’d been hospitalised a few times in the past. You’ll find that out if you check. He had a persecution complex, and he could be violent.’

  ‘Any instances here?’

  ‘He tried it on me once; suspected me of strangling his research budget.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘The department was being subjected to another financial audit. I had to clamp down on expenditure to make the books balance. It wasn’t aimed at Malcolm, although he saw it that way.’

  ‘What was he researching?’

  ‘Classified. Way above your level.’

  ‘I could get clearance,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You must understand, I’m subject to the Official Secrets Act. It would be a criminal offence for me to reveal what he was working on.’

  Isaac did not believe the man, but he had been forced to sign the Official Secrets Act, as had Larry, when they had been looking for a missing woman in a previous case.

  However, Malcolm Woolston did not appear to be involved with the security organisations, but was purely a man out for revenge, and if he had killed Arbuthnot and Hutton for that reason, then Barrow was a clear target as well.

  The first thing that Isaac intended to resolve was to get the necessary security clearance. He was sure he would be back in Barrow’s office after that, and as for his wife, he would not wait for Barrow to inform her that she had two husbands, both alive and well.

  Isaac knew he’d take Wendy on that occasion.

  Outside in the street, Larry asked, ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Scientific research, an arms dealer. What do you think?’

  ‘I’d say they were researching advanced weaponry. That would explain the security rating.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Isaac said. ‘These people all tend to be neurotic.’

  ‘Ed Barrow?’

  ‘Until he’s been checked out, he remains suspect. Whatever happens, he’s a prime target.’

  Inside the building, Barrow picked up his phone. Sue Christie was sitting alongside him. ‘The police have identified Malcolm Woolston.’

  ‘We’ll implement damage control. You were right to doubt his disappearance all those years ago, but, where was he?’

  ‘The question is not where he was; the question is where he is now,’ Barrow said.

  He hung up the phone and turned to Sue Christie. ‘This is going to get dirty. Are you prepared for the flak?’

  ‘I’m prepared,’ she said as she leant over and kissed him firmly on the lips.

  Chapter 16

  Malcolm Woolston, no longer using the name of Big Greg, realised that he was navigating a tricky path. On one side, the need to protect the results of his research and to extract his revenge. On the other, the need to be with his family again. He knew why he had killed Robertson; he had had enough of living a lie, hiding in the shadows, pretending to be someone he was not.

  A methodical man, he laid out the plan on his laptop. He had dealt with those who had tortured him, and he had lined up his wife’s second husband as another person who had to die. He assumed that the man, callous as he knew him to be, would not have told Gwen, that her first husband, Malcolm, was alive and well, and close by.

  He had given the police a warning, not that he had ever expected them to take heed. He had seen the black police inspector with the woman from the hostel that he had spoken to on the bench. Very friendly he had thought when he had seen them, but then, he knew her history, had seen her selling herself.

  It was strange, he thought, that when he had been disreputable and on the street the thought of the soft touch of a woman had not entered his mind, although it did now, but it was always the same woman: his wife. And she was safely ensconced with Ed Barrow, one of the men he had decided to kill. Maybe if he explained all that had happened, all that must occur, then she would transfer her affections back to him.

  He knew that was unlikely. Too much water under the bridge, too much anguish and sorrow, too many deaths, and after he had disposed of Ed, there would only be revulsion, bitterness, recriminations. They had been happy years with his wife and their daughter, but they were in the past, and now there was only the future. A future that looked bleak and empty.

  ***

  Ed Barrow knew that the situation was tenuous. For almost fifteen years he had held the position of director of the research department. With that had come an appreciable salary complete with benefits: the car, the superannuation, the budget to continue with the projects that interested him. Regardless of how Malcolm Woolston saw him, he knew that he was a decent man who had been placed in a difficult position. There had only been one option that fateful day when the two men had visited him: he agreed to the military men’s demands, or they’d ensure the department was closed down and he would be evicted from the building.

  It was as if it was only yesterday, when he and Sue, Malcolm, and Gwen would spend most summer Sunday afternoons barbequing or taking trips to the sea for the day. He had envied his friend with his perfect wife and his perfect child.

  He knew he could never have what Malcolm had, it was not possible medicall
y, and Sue, an attractive woman in her thirties then, a lot of fun, physically very demanding, was not interested either. They had discussed marriage, but she was not overly keen. ‘I like to keep my options open,’ she had said.

  Ed knew that what she meant was that she liked the freedom to date other men, to sleep with them, to discard them. Sue was an independent woman, he knew that, and he had always realised that she was not wife material, but he had asked her anyway. They had been together two years by that time, and the openness had been more on her side than his.

  He knew that he had been disturbed that day when they had grabbed Malcolm as he was preparing to leave the building, after he had made it clear to everyone that he had solved the final problem and that he was able to create energy at minimal cost, limitless energy in his estimation.

  He had watched Arbuthnot and the other man laying into his friend the following day until he had become too sickened to watch. He had seen Harold Hutton countersign the documents with him on behalf of his government for the treatment to continue, and now Hutton and Arbuthnot were both dead. And now Malcolm was coming for him and, no doubt, for Sue.

  He loved Gwen, he knew that, and with Malcolm’s death, the field had been clear for him to press his suit with her. He remembered how Gwen had reacted that first time, six months after Malcolm had disappeared. That had not been a good day when he confronted her in the kitchen of her house, told her how he felt. She had reacted with a gentle rebuke, then with soulful sobbing for the husband who was not coming back. He had tried to put his arms around her to comfort her, but she pushed him away.

  He had left that house that day with her in tears, telling him not to come back. It was another three months before he saw her again, and the tears had stopped. As she said, she had to remain strong for their daughter. For nearly two years, they kept in touch, his helping as he could, sometimes acting as a substitute for the child’s father, sometimes babysitting while Gwen ventured out into the world of dating again.

  One night when she had come home late, complaining that her date had drunk too much, made too many offensive remarks, they had ended up naked on the floor. The young child, by that time thirteen going on fourteen, was fast asleep upstairs. It was only the second time that he had told Gwen that he loved her, and he wanted to be with her and Malcolm’s daughter. They married two months later, a quiet ceremony in a local registry office, a reception back at the house, a honeymoon in the Canary Islands, the daughter accompanying them.