He remembered that she had been a softer soul then, concerned that what was happening to a friend in a remote location was wrong. It had taken all his charms to convince her of the necessity, but then he came to know that her concern was an affectation and that what convinced her was the potential money involved.
And then there was her and other men. He knew about the general, a man who should have known better, although he could not blame the old fool. The man and his brother were men who portrayed respectability, the best of British, yet they were always willing to strike a deal with anyone, if it was to the country’s benefit or theirs.
Sally felt guilt in that she had set up the meeting between her parents, hoping that it would resolve issues, not knowing that her mother, the one constant in her life, was contemplating a violent action. And now all she had was Ed, but he wasn’t her real father. That man was lying in a hospital bed.
‘I’d like to see my father,’ Sally said to Isaac when he spoke to her at the station.
‘I’ll need a statement first as to how you knew how to contact your father.’
‘And then?’
‘I’ll see what can be arranged.’
Isaac looked over at Ed Barrow. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Not at all. It’s a mess.’
‘Murder always is. Invariably it’s the innocent who suffer the most.’
‘That’s us,’ Barrow said.
Sally at least, Isaac thought. He still had his doubts about Barrow.
***
Over the course of a few days, Malcolm Woolston’s condition continued to improve. He had been formally charged with the murders of Bob Robertson, Sue Christie, Harold Hutton, and George Arbuthnot. As he had freely admitted to their slayings, he had no difficulty in signing a confession to that effect. Richard Goddard was delighted, and had been the first to phone Commissioner Davies with the good news. Also, Gwen Barrow had been charged and transferred out to a prison pending trial, bail refused.
Isaac had a nagging feeling that all was not right. He had wrapped up the case, dealt with the case for the prosecution, collated all the evidence, interviewed all the people intimately involved and those on the periphery.
‘What is it?’ Larry asked. He had seen his DCI sitting in his chair, eyes closed, thinking.
‘We still don’t understand why.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Probably not, but Woolston’s still in the hospital, and he shows no guilt for his actions.’
‘It’s not for us to psychoanalyse the man.’
‘I agree. And then his former wife attempts to kill him. A woman with no history of criminal behaviour whatsoever.’
‘DCS Goddard would tell you to leave well alone and just take the credit for wrapping up another investigation.’
‘He’s right, I know that.’
‘Then, with respect, sir, drop it.’
‘What causes a man to leave his family? You’ve met Gwen Barrow and their daughter?’
‘Good people, so is the father, apart from what he’s done.’
‘Did we investigate Woolston’s project?’
‘We’re Homicide. Is it relevant?’
‘Not in itself, but Woolston thought it was, otherwise he wouldn’t have put himself through eleven years of purgatory. The man had enjoyed the good life, and then he’s out on the street with all its deprivations.’
‘Personally, I think the man just lost it.’
‘Maybe you’re right. Let’s wrap up the case and take a break for a few days until some other idiot decides to kill someone else.’
‘A few days? More like a few hours judging by our luck.’
A sense of calm reigned in the Homicide department. Final interviews had been concluded with Ed Barrow, Helen Toogood, and Sally. Malcolm Woolston, his condition improving, remained in the hospital, although no longer in intensive care, and he was back on his feet. He was the only person that maintained a level of agitation. Outside his private room at the hospital, the uniforms were stationed on an eight-hour rotating basis, and there was a secure and barred door that isolated the wing from the general hospital. Isaac kept in contact with the man, but he had little to say, other than it wasn’t over yet. Woolston kept reaffirming that his wife was innocent of all crimes and should be released.
Isaac thought that under the circumstances a lenient charge may give her a reduced sentence, possibly no time in prison, but it would be exceptional. Still, if asked to provide evidence, he knew that he would make a plea for leniency based on the woman’s cooperation, and the desire to save her husband, Ed. There were two facts that did not gel: why would Malcolm Woolston want to kill Ed Barrow and why had he killed Sue Christie?
***
For once Ed Barrow found himself without a job. As the department’s research director, he had been given the sack. It had come quickly after the death of Sue Christie and the arrest of Malcolm Woolston. Barrow could see the hand of influence and power behind the scenes. He knew how it worked, having used it when Malcolm Woolston had refused to reveal the final solution to his research project.
Then it had been easy. Harold Hutton had counselled him on what was required after he had informed him, but who was calling the shots now? Barrow didn’t know, and it concerned him. He had made a few phone calls, received bland responses, or maybe he had called the wrong people.
Barrow was desperate. Without any support mechanism in place, and in a trial, proof that Malcolm Woolston had been tortured, the questions would come back on him, and what did he have? Nothing. No written record, no recorded conversations, and the only persons who could corroborate his story were all dead, killed by Woolston.
Ed Barrow travelled to where his wife was being held. He found her in a conciliatory mood. ‘Malcolm’s going to live,’ she said.
‘That’s not what you intended.’
‘What were you up to? What caused Malcolm to do what he did?’
Both of them realised that whatever happened, their marriage was doomed.
‘The man was idealistic. He brought this on himself.’
‘He always was, you know that. Did you have him tortured?’
‘I knew about it, but it was not my idea. I was placed in a dilemma. One of those decisions in life which cannot be defined by a simple yes or no.’
‘And now I’m in jail, charged with murder.’
‘Life takes unknown directions. It’s not over yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The project that Malcolm was working on is still valid.’
‘They’ll make him continue?’
‘He’ll either agree, or they’ll force him.’
‘Can they?’
‘They know his Achilles’ heel.’
‘Sally and me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would they?’
‘Those bastards will do anything.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘I have my suspicions.’
‘Then you’d better contact them.’
‘I have already.’
***
Two men met. Two men who had little in common apart from the fact that both were ex-lovers of Sue Christie. Claude Smythe was British Army, the son of a duke. Ed Barrow was a civil servant, the son of a bus driver and educated at the local grammar school, not at Eton.
‘Barrow, you know what’s needed,’ Smythe said. There was to be no friendly conversation this time. Smythe had the irritating habit of referring to his social inferiors by their surnames.
‘You know what I require?’
‘It’s already been agreed.’
‘In writing? Barrow asked.
‘No one will claim responsibility if this goes wrong.’
Ed Barrow could see that he had to trust the man. He did not like Smythe, despised him in many ways. His father had been working class and a decent, hardworking individual who had never cheated on his taxes, helped the old dears on and off his bus. Smythe, Barrow knew, wo
uld help no one.
The conversation had been brief, a handshake on their meeting, another on leaving. Barrow knew that he was placing his trust in a man he did not like, but he had no option.
Two days later, as Malcolm Woolston hobbled down the corridor outside his room at the hospital, an order came through signed by Commissioner Davies for his immediate release. Another two hours and Woolston stood on the street in the company of two men dressed in suits. ‘Ed Barrow?’ he asked.
‘We’re just the delivery men,’ the shorter of the two said.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘You’ll see.’
A vehicle drew up alongside, its windows tinted. Once inside, and with Woolston pinned between the two men on the back seat, one of them took out a syringe from his pocket and injected him in the neck.
‘How long will he sleep?’ the other one asked.
‘Long enough.’
***
The first Isaac and his team heard of the events at the hospital was a phone call thirty minutes later.
‘They’ve released Woolston,’ Richard Goddard said.
‘Who’s they?’ Isaac asked.
‘Davies received a directive.’
‘And he released the man? He may be the commissioner of the Met but he doesn’t have the authority.’
‘He had no option.’
‘Protecting his job, is that it?’
‘Isaac, you may well be upset, so am I, but we all have someone we report to.’
‘Even Davies?’
‘We’ve been there before. You know how it works.’
‘Security of the state?’
‘They’re the government. We do what we’re told.’
Isaac called in the team to his office. ‘They’ve released Malcolm Woolston.’
‘All charges dropped?’ Isaac asked his DCS on the phone.
‘The charges still apply.’
‘Gwen Barrow?’
‘There’ll be a trial.’
‘A whitewash?’
‘What do you think?’
***
Isaac and Larry left the office soon after their DCS’s phone call. They found Ed Barrow at his house. ‘Were you involved?’ Isaac asked.
Barrow sat calmly on a chair. He fiddled with his smartphone. Isaac wanted to pick it up and to throw it out of the window, as angry as he was.
‘Woolston?’ Barrow said, pretending not to know.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. He’s gone, that’s all I know.’
‘You’ve sold out.’
‘Sold out to who and what?’
‘Those who wanted him.’
‘It’s not a matter that I can talk about.’
‘Why?’
‘Official Secrets Act. You’ve heard of it.’
‘I’ve heard of it. What did they offer you? A salary increase, a promotion.’
‘I didn’t do it for that.’
‘Then for what?’
‘My family, that’s who.’
‘Your wife is still in jail.’
‘She is safe, as is Sally and her child. That’s what Malcolm wanted all along. I’ve done what he couldn’t.’
Within one week Gwen Barrow was released on bail; six weeks later the charge against her was dropped.
In another country, in a secure establishment, Malcolm Woolston worked at the project he had tried to avoid for so many years. He was aware of the penalty for failure to complete it, the penalty for any attempt on his part to delay it.
‘Malcolm, they’re safe. That’s all that’s important,’ Ed said to him in the small room that constituted Woolston’s living quarters.
Woolston nodded his head weakly, knowing that it had all been in vain. They would have their weapon, and he would never see England or his family again.
The End
Murder in Notting Hill
Phillip Strang
Chapter 1
A smart upmarket terrace house in Holland Park, a council flat in Notting Hill, and they appeared to have nothing in common apart from one significant fact: a murder at each location. In Holland Park, Amelia Brice, a socialite, the young daughter of a well-respected and very white media personality; in Notting Hill, Christine Devon, a forty-year-old domestic cleaner with no money, three children, and black. The deaths were identical: a plastic bag over the head, clearly garrotted.
Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, a man who appreciated the occasional weekend off but rarely seemed to get it, knew that once again the Homicide department at Challis Street Police Station was in for a busy few weeks. Not one murder this time, but two on the same day.
‘I’d say they were killed within one hour of each other,’ Gordon Windsor, the station’s crime scene examiner, said. A man used to death, he expressed neither remorse nor delight. He was a man doing his job, without emotion.
Isaac, a tall, good-looking man, Jamaican by heritage, English by birth, and his colleague, Detective Inspector Larry Hill, a man now in his mid-forties, and putting on weight much to the chagrin of his wife, formed a good team. Their sergeant, Wendy Gladstone, staving off retirement, somehow passing the medicals, even if her arthritis was not getting better, was back at the station.
‘Any ideas?’ Isaac said to Larry. Both men were in Notting Hill, looking at the body of Christine Devon, the black woman. It was clear that she had put up a struggle.
‘What ideas? From what I’ve been able to gather from the youngest son, fifteen, a bit of a tearaway, he came home at four this afternoon and found her dead.’
‘Tearaway?’
‘Gang member probably. We’ve got enough around here: poorly educated, chip on their collective shoulders.’
‘And dangerous?’
‘As a group. Individually they’re harmless.’
‘The son?’
‘Samuel Devon is probably ineffectual. He’s a skinny individual, on the tall side. He should be at school, probably isn’t most of the time, or if he is, it’s only to waste time.’
‘And the mother?’
‘According to the son, she worked in the area. Domestic most days of the week.’
‘A cleaner is what you mean. Is she Jamaican?’
‘Trinidadian, according to the son.’
‘The father?’
‘He’s not around, although there’s a couple of other children: a daughter of eighteen, another son of nineteen. We’re trying to find them now.’
‘The other woman?’ Isaac asked.
‘Grant Meston is over there now,’ Gordon Windsor said.
‘I went there first. What can you tell us?’
‘The same type of murder.’
‘How and why?’ Isaac said.
‘You’re the detectives, you tell me,’ Windsor said.
‘It’s not as if you could confuse the two women,’ Larry said.
‘But why? One of the women is well-known and white; the other is black and unknown.’
‘A nobody?’
‘You know what I mean,’ Isaac said.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Larry said.
‘That’s why we’re here.’
A young woman walked in through the front door of the flat. ‘I want to see my mother,’ she said to the uniform on the door.
Isaac saw her from the other room; he came out to talk to her. ‘We’ll need to conclude our investigation first,’ he said. The woman, he could see, was well-dressed and attractive.
‘She’s my mother, I have every right to see her,’ Charisa Devon said.
‘That’s understood, but your mother’s been murdered. It’s a criminal matter now. I must do my duty.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘What can you tell me about your mother?’
‘She was a hard worker, always cared about us.’
‘We’ve met Samuel. He looks as if he’s about to go off the rails.’
‘He is. It’s the gangs around here, you must know that.’
‘I
grew up not far from here, so yes, I know.’
A uniform handed her and Isaac a cup of coffee from a café down below. ‘Thanks,’ the daughter said. ‘You’ve turned out alright.’
Isaac could see that she was putting on a brave face; the enormity of the situation not yet hitting her. ‘It’s tough. Not all of my friends made it.’
‘In jail?’
‘Some are dead. Your brother could become a statistic.’
‘Our mother used to lecture him to try harder at school.’
‘Any success?’
‘No. He thinks that petty thieving and hanging out on a street corner offer more. Although, around here, if you’re not a gang member, you’re singled out.’
‘Ganja?’
‘If it stays at that, he may pull through.’
‘Have you ever heard of an Amelia Brice?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not me. Not around here anyway.’
‘She lived in Holland Park.’
‘Lived?’
‘She’s dead. At approximately the same time as your mother.’
‘And you see it as more than a coincidence?’
‘It may be circumstantial, but the odds are not in our favour. Two women murdered at around the same time. We’re assuming there’s a relationship. Would your mother have known the woman?’
‘She used to clean for people in Holland Park, but she never mentioned their names.’
In the other room, Gordon Windsor was wrapping up, although his people would continue to comb the small flat looking for clues as to the perpetrator. The young woman left and went outside to light up a cigarette. Isaac could see her from the window, her hands trembling as she attempted to light it.
‘Not much to tell,’ Windsor said. ‘She put up a fight, but nothing’s been taken, from what we can see.’
The last statement did not surprise Isaac; it was the flat of a family with little money, the same as many others that had been built on the periphery of wealth. His parents had made it to the city with its streets paved with gold, as he remembered it from a nursery rhyme about Dick Whittington. He did not know why it came to him as he stood there in that dreary flat in that drab block of flats. His parents had suffered for following the dream of a better life in London than in Jamaica, and no doubt the dead woman had as well. His parents had eventually prospered, but the dead woman had not, and judging by the daughter’s accent, she had been in England for a long time.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 124