‘That’s understood, sir. We believe that Woolston has a legitimate reason for his actions.’
‘Murder? Legitimate?’
‘We ran into this with the Marjorie Frobisher case.’
‘Government interference, distorting the truth?’
‘It’s not the same, at least not in its entirety. Woolston realised that the government, probably others, were going to use his research for non-ethical purposes. He couldn’t agree, they tried to force it out of him, he disappeared.’
‘Very commendable, no doubt, but now he’s killing people.’
‘Apart from Robertson, which he regretted, he has killed another two.’
‘Why do we always get these cases? What’s wrong with a straightforward domestic dispute. Every case you take on always has some unforeseen complication. And now you’re saying that murder is justified.’
‘That’s not what I said. Woolston believed that Hutton and Arbuthnot deserved to die.’
‘Any more on his list?’
‘He said he wasn’t finished.’
‘Names?’
‘He didn’t give them. And If Woolston is right, and there are government officials involved, you know what can happen.’
‘We’ve been forced to cease our investigations before, let a murderer walk free because of an official directive. This one could be the same.’
‘Are you meaning that Woolston may get off?’
‘I’m not sure yet, but if he has vital information and they get to him first, then it’s always possible.’
‘And I’m meant to tell Davies all this?’
‘Unfortunately, you’ll just have to take the heat and keep us on the case.’
‘Isaac, I believe you have an easier job than me,’ DCS Goddard said.
***
In one corner of the room was the computer that had been taken from Bob Robertson’s hostel. In another, a group of men studied Malcolm Woolston’s files.
‘It doesn’t make sense to me,’ the first of the men said.
‘Nor me,’ the second said.
The group had been working on solving the problem that had confronted them for over ten years, and they were no nearer to perfecting the weapon. Each time they tried, all they were able to do was to generate a minor explosion, but it was nowhere near the intensity or with the directional control needed.
They had the best equipment, General Claude Smythe had ensured that, the best security, and certainly the most powerful computers, yet none of it was sufficient. What they needed was the man. Smythe was aware of that fact, he had been for many years, and now with the files, and Sue Christie firmly in his corner, and Woolston having made contact with her, he was certain that it would only be days before the man would be joining the team. He wouldn’t enjoy it, nor the country he would be taken to, and his accommodation, while adequate, would be spartan, with bars on the windows and guards at the only door to the cell. And if the man resisted, then he had people who could be very persuasive.
All Smythe had to do was to keep a watch on the woman, and the man would come. Originally it had been a concerted effort with Hutton to secure the solution from the naïve Woolston, to convert his work into a weapon and then to sell it to whoever was willing to pay, but time had moved on. Hutton was dead, so was Arbuthnot, and the field was clear for the general and his brother to reap all the rewards.
Claude Smythe had no illusions about what he and his brother were. Their lives had been ones of privilege and service to the community, and although he was a general in Her Majesty’s army and his brother was a senior politician, they had realised that Woolston had given them access to more than a draughty castle and a government pension. An academic had given them the key to infinite wealth, the chance to live like kings, and Sue Christie came as an extra benefit, if only he could convince her to join with him.
At sixty years, Claude Smythe knew that he should be acting his age, but with the woman in his bed, he had felt twenty years younger. They had first made love twelve years previously, and whereas he knew what she was, and that she slept around, he also knew that she was the ideal woman: loving, devious, and willing to do anything if it was to her benefit. Pretending to care about Ed Barrow after he had married Woolston’s widow was one instance, seducing him another.
Smythe appreciated driven personalities, and even though Sue Christie could never be trusted, she’d make an attractive addition to his lifestyle and he’d make sure she was well supported. As for Ed Barrow, the man had served his purpose. He had kept the department functional, but he had found no one with the ability to conclude Woolston’s work. A decision would need to be made in the near future, but first the files that Sue had supplied had to be checked.
He phoned Sue. ‘Tonight?’ he said.
‘Later. I’ve got to deal with Ed Barrow first.’
‘Thursday night?’
Sue Christie smiled. Two men, both reeled in hook, line, and sinker. She had always known her impact on men. It was not that she was the most beautiful woman, nor the one with the best figure. She knew her breasts were too small, her hips too large, but it was the complete package that men lusted after, and she knew how to work it. Not only did she have a general, but she also had Ed Barrow, and she’d seen Malcolm Woolston mentally undressing her in her flat the other night when he had forced his way in. She knew that with Woolston, she would have the trifecta.
Chapter 22
Helen Toogood walked into the patent office in London at 10 o’clock on a Friday morning. She registered a document in the names of Malcolm Woolston and Helen Toogood. At precisely 11 a.m. she made a phone call. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Are you sure about this?’
‘Your name is registered as well. Even if I cannot take advantage, then you can,’ Woolston said knowing that the possibility existed of government intervention in the patents’ office.’
‘Surely our research belongs to the government?’ Helen said.
‘Once my technical paper has been published, they’ll not be able to claim it. The ability to misuse it has been removed. Do you think they’ll want to admit to my torture, the fact that Ed Barrow is involved with people of ill-repute, that Harold Hutton was a bastard, and that General Claude Smythe and his brother are involved in illegal arms dealings?’
‘But you can never benefit.’
‘I’m not important, my family is. I trust you to share the rewards with them.’
‘I will. What will you do now?’
‘There are a few loose ends.’
‘Ed Barrow?’
‘I’m uncertain about him. It would upset Gwen if he died.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?’
‘I wasn’t certain that I was coming back.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I knew that Bob Robertson had alerted them to me. I had to act.’
The phone call ended. Helen Toogood, the only person Woolston knew he could trust, the person he had first contacted when he had returned from the dead, had done her part.
At 8 p.m. the door swung open at Sue Christie’s flat and she walked in. ‘Malcolm, what are you doing here?’
‘You’ve sold out. I saw you with Smythe. Are you screwing him as well as Ed?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Did you know what they did to me, all those years ago?’
‘Yes. Ed said it was necessary.’
‘Those files you gave Smythe are as worthless as you are.’
‘You set me up?’
‘I needed to know who I could trust.’
‘Helen?’
‘She has done her part. Now you must do yours.’
***
Isaac Cook received the phone call at 8 a.m. the next morning. It was not often that he spoke to self-confessed killers. Typically, they preferred to keep their deeds under wraps, but Malcolm Woolston needed to talk, to someone he hoped would understand. ‘I had to do it,’ Woolston said.
Isaac signalled to Bridget on the
other side of the department. She came running. ‘Woolston,’ he mouthed to her. Bridget retreated to instigate a check on where the phone call was being made from.
‘Don’t bother,’ Woolston said. ‘Our phone conversation will not take long, and besides, it’s untraceable. Now listen.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Even if you do not understand, there are reasons why my original research must remain hidden. It is why I continue to remove people who jeopardise that wish.’
‘And what about your wife and daughter? Don’t you place them at risk?’
‘That is why they need protection.’
‘But we cannot guarantee total protection.’
‘I will help to ensure they are safe. You have met Sue Christie?’ Woolston asked.
‘Yes, on a few occasions.’
‘She was willing to sell out if the price was right.’
‘And what are you going to do.’
‘It has been dealt with.’
‘How?’
‘132 Craven Terrace, ground floor. I suggest you check it out.’
‘What will we find?’
‘Sue Christie.’
‘Is she?’
‘Dead. Yes, she’s very dead. An attractive woman in her time, but I could not let her live.’
‘This is madness. You kill people and then phone me up. What kind of person does that?’
‘Someone who understands who he is dealing with.’
***
‘The man’s psychotic,’ Isaac said as he stood in Sue Christie’s flat, the signs of a struggle clearly visible. A cat sat in one corner of the room; some flowers in a vase. The body of the woman sprawled across the floor. She had been strangled, her legs kicking out in her panic. Until now Isaac had been willing to concede that Woolston may have had an obscure, but valid reason for disposing of people, at least in his mind. Not that it excused him, but there had been murder enquiries in the past where the politics of the country had conflicted with the truth, and where the politics had taken precedence.
The average man in the street held the begrudging belief that the political masters had the best interests of the people at heart, but neither Isaac Cook nor his department, and certainly not his DCS, believed in that totally. Isaac knew of three deaths in previous cases that were government-sanctioned and would never be solved. But now he could no longer grant the man the benefit of the doubt. Woolston, for all his postulating, was a murderer without conscience.
‘You don’t need me to tell you who the murderer is this time, do you?’ Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner, asked.
‘It’s Woolston. I’ve no idea what the man is playing at. His wife and daughter are in plain view. He must realise the risk that he’s placing them under.’
‘And you always thought the man was rational.’
***
Malcolm Woolston sat in his flat. The nightmares that had plagued him before his time on the street were returning. He was losing his ability to rationalise between reality and fiction, his capacity to distinguish between right and wrong. Sue Christie’s death had been right, he was sure of that. After all, he had seen her give Smythe the files, or had she? She had left the office that day, deposited the files in the bin that he had told her to, and then carried on to meet one of the two military men that he had seen Ed with all those years before.
He had liked Sue, yet he had killed her, but what had she done, what could she do? The knowledge they wanted still resided with him.
She had struggled, he remembered that. Why had he enjoyed taking her life, he did not know. Maybe it was a deviancy, a repressed sexual desire, to want the woman, yet knowing he couldn’t have her. She had pleaded with him for her life, even would have let him make love to her in return, but what had he done? He had sucked the life from her and left. And now there were others that needed to die, and soon.
Ed was a certainty, but his wife had betrayed him, slept with another. Did she need to die as well? And what about his daughter? She had shown affection for Barrow, even allowed him to walk her down the aisle when it should have been his responsibility. How could she? He paced up and down the flat, feeling the walls pressing in on him, thinking thoughts, not sure if they had attempted to force the solution out of him or whether it had been a dream.
He knew that he needed help. He phoned the only person who would understand. ‘DCI Cook, I am not sure,’ Woolston said.
‘You’ve murdered Sue Christie.’
‘What if none of it is true? What if I only imagine it? Could it be that I spent all those years living rough because of madness?’
‘No one deserved to die, you know that. Why don’t you come into the police station and we can discuss it?’
‘Not yet. I need to decide.’
‘Decide what?’
‘If what I believe is true or not.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I will wait. Rest, that is what I need.’
***
Richard Goddard was not in a good mood, which did not surprise Isaac. He’d let him express his customary criticism, his self-recrimination as to why he had let DCI Cook continue with the investigation when obviously he was not up to it.
After a few minutes, Goddard calmed down. ‘What’s this that you’re saying? That you believe that the man is psychotic and no longer rational?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘What if he is? How does that affect the current situation? How do you think this reflects on the department, on me?’
‘Badly, I suppose.’
‘Dead right, it does. Are you saying that none of the reasons that he gives for murdering four people are correct, and that we’re just dealing with a mad genius, is that it?’
‘It’s probable.’
‘Then you’d better find out,’ Goddard said.
***
Ed Barrow was in a panic. Everyone who was close to him was dead, including Sue Christie. He realised, on hearing the news of her death, that he had liked her more than he would admit to. They had been together in that office for fifteen years and lovers for nine of them. He remembered the last time they had made love, only two days earlier, and that she had been full of life, optimistic for the future. Now she was dead.
All those who had been involved when Woolston had been detained and tortured were dead, apart from him. It was clear that the man was tidying up loose ends, and that he, Ed Barrow, had lasted longer than the others, but he was still a target. Woolston had told him that over the phone that one time. Sue Christie should have been protected. The woman was neither naïve nor stupid, yet somehow Malcolm Woolston had managed to get into her flat.
And what was she killed for? She had not been involved with Woolston’s treatment eleven years previously. She knew about it, he had told her, Ed realised that, but her reaction had not been agreeable. To her, it had all been too sordid, although a percentage of any deals that might be made was attractive to her. Ed Barrow knew one thing: he needed to protect himself. He needed his wife’s assistance.
‘You’ve heard about Sue?’ he asked Gwen in the front room of the house they shared.
‘Tragic. Was it Malcolm?’
‘No doubt.’
‘Then he will be after you as well.’
‘Yes.’
‘According to Sally, he was maltreated all those years ago. The reason he faked his death.’
Ed Barrow could see no way to avoid the truth, or at least some of it. ‘Malcolm was idealistic, holding onto a belief in the goodness of man.’
‘You knew about this?’
‘Not immediately, but some powerful people wanted him to talk,’ Ed said, knowing full well that he had lied.
‘Did Sue?’
‘Not at first.’
‘You’re lying, I know it. She was killed because she was involved, the same as you. What Malcolm told Sally is all true. Why did you marry me? To keep an eye on me in case Malcolm knocked on the door? Is that it? And don’t lie. And don�
�t give me that innocent boy look that you do when you’ve been screwing Sue.’
‘But...’
‘But nothing and don’t deny it. It didn’t worry me at the time, it won’t now. You’re a bastard, a charming bastard. I didn’t want to be alone, and you were the nearest thing there was to Malcolm, and Sally adored you.’
Ed Barrow sat down, a look of disbelief on his face. Gwen, a woman who had adored her first husband, had seen through him from the very beginning. ‘There is no reason for Sue’s death,’ he said.
‘Whatever it is that you and she had cooked up, it was responsible for Malcolm faking his death, and then coming back and killing people. What is this great secret that forces a man such as him to behave in this manner? Are you going to tell me, or are you going to sit there whimpering? And there’s no point crying to your mistress, she’s dead, and no great loss to society. You two are total bastards, you know that.’
‘I love you,’ Ed said.
‘Maybe you do, but Malcolm’s out there on his own. The man may have had his faults, but he never cheated on me even when Sue was giving him the eye.’
‘We need to work together on this. What if Malcolm comes for me?’
‘Why would he? What is it that you and Sue were involved in?’
Ed wasn’t sure what to say. Should he level with her and tell her what he knew, what the plan was, how it was going to make them all rich, Malcolm included, if he had played ball. ‘I need to return to the office. It’s complicated. We’ll talk later,’ he said as he left the house.
After he left, Gwen picked up her phone. ‘Sally, I want to see your father.’
Chapter 23
Claude Smythe had enjoyed the time that he had spent with Sue Christie, the snatched weekends in the country away from his wife. As a general in the British Army, he had had her checked out. He knew about her men, about Ed Barrow and their clandestine affair. He also knew that she was devious and could not be trusted, and that her tolerance of him, a man past his prime, was not because of love, but because of a lust for money, and with his contacts, she could achieve that.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 122