‘Too many questions and he’s dead as well.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Is this related to the murders of Christine Devon and Amelia Brice?’
‘It’s unlikely.’
‘And Samuel Devon?’
‘If he’s been taken, then he’s probably dead.’
‘And when will we know?’
‘When we find his body.’
‘You’d better come back to the station. We need to maintain our focus on the two women,’ Isaac said.
‘According to Rasta Joe, Amelia Brice was using cocaine.’
‘Did he know her?’
‘Sometimes she’d take off her fancy clothes, put on a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt and mix it up with the locals. It seems she liked the occasional Rastaman.’
‘Rasta Joe?’
‘Not him. She liked them young and virile.’
‘Not the image she portrayed in the social pages.’
‘They’ve all got skeletons, the rich and famous.’
‘How about her father?’
‘We’ll need to check him out.’
***
Two days passed, and there was no sign of Samuel Devon. It was not the prime interest for Homicide, and while Isaac could be sympathetic to Charisa and Billy Devon, there was not a lot more that he could do. It seemed that virtually every hour Charisa was on the phone, and even though he referred her to another department, she kept coming back to him. And it still wasn’t clear whether her brother’s disappearance was related, although probably not if the information coming back to Larry Hill was correct. The man had his ear to the ground in places where it wasn’t safe to do so, and the begrudging relationship between a detective inspector and a gang leader was unusual. Typically, two such men would keep their distance, but DI Hill had helped Rasta Joe out on a couple of occasions, and the English-born Jamaican had helped him out in return. Isaac knew Rasta from their schooldays; he did not like what he represented and was not good at disguising the fact, whereas Larry could take the man at face value and not attempt to delve into his dubious background.
The word on the street was that the two rival gangs had resolved their differences, which meant that retribution had been made. Rasta Joe had assumed that meant that Samuel Devon was dead, but as yet there was no proof.
Meanwhile, an interview with Jeremy Brice, the father of one of the dead women, had revealed a man full of invective and not much else. It was his house where his daughter had been found, but he did not see her too often. She went her way, he went his. The relationship between the two of them was not good, although he paid all her bills, and yes, he knew that she was snorting cocaine. He didn’t approve, but he wasn’t going to throw her out of the house, not like he had wanted to do to her mother when he had caught her in bed with a younger man. The last piece of information did not come from Brice, but from Wendy Gladstone, who had been asking questions around the area. A neighbour two doors down, old and embittered, had been happy to dish the dirt on the sanctimonious and argumentative Jeremy Brice.
Wendy had thought the woman like a crab, with her sideways glances down the road, trying to see what was going on.
‘She was a one, that Amelia Brice,’ the old lady had said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her men friends, all the time.’
‘How many?’
‘All the time.’
‘Specifically.’
‘I saw her there once with a man on the doorstep; they were kissing.’
Wendy checked it out, found no verification, only that the mother of the dead woman had died five years before her daughter in a car accident in Greece, apparently drunk according to the police report.
Chapter 3
The pathologist, Graham Pickett, a tall, thin man in his late fifties, confirmed that the two women had died in the same manner. The amount of pressure applied to the neck, the securing of the plastic bag over the head, administered first to confuse and then to prevent screaming, had all the hallmarks of a professional. Isaac knew that whatever the motive, it was not minor.
The fact that the two women were almost certainly killed by the same person offered some clues as to who it was. The murders didn’t, nor the manner in which they were committed, but whoever it was, that person would have had to be able to move freely in upmarket Holland Park and in a council tower block in Notting Hill. An Anglo-Saxon, white male in a suit would have been out of place in the vicinity of Christine Devon’s residence and would have raised suspicion.
‘Why these two women?’ Isaac asked at the department meeting. It was early, six in the morning. Larry was still struggling to wake up, Bridget was wide awake, as was Wendy. Isaac was the senior investigating officer. His idea of a well-managed investigation came with long hours, early starts, and professional policing.
The early starts did not concern him as back at his flat in Willesden, it was just him and his pillow. The would-be wife from Jamaica, looking for a husband or at least residency in the UK was gone. He had enjoyed the nights with her, but the bond between them wasn’t there. She was looking for a better life than in Jamaica, and with a police inspector in London, she wasn’t going to get it. She had turned up her nose when she had first seen his flat, smaller than the room he had rented at the hotel in Montego Bay. He had tried to explain before she arrived on his doorstep that rainy evening in London that a holiday fling in Montego Bay was not the same as his usual life, the life of a police officer on a salary.
‘If it’s the same person who committed both murders, that means at least a time difference of thirty-five to forty minutes,’ Wendy said.
‘How long to drive from one to the other?’ Larry asked. He was slouching in his chair, the result of his burgeoning weight. Isaac looked at him, realised that it was up to him to have a word about it. Larry’s wife, an advocate for healthy eating and a healthy mind, always ensured that he had a balanced diet for his lunch, carefully packed in a plastic container, though he didn’t eat it with relish, and most days it would lie discarded on his desk until the cleaning staff came and took it away.
‘Twenty minutes, give or take a few minutes either way,’ Isaac said. ‘And then there’s the time to park a vehicle.’
‘Not if there’s another person.’
‘Are we agreed that these murders are the work of a professional?’
‘According to Gordon Windsor.’
‘Then why? What’s the information on the two women? Bridget, what do you have?’
Bridget, a woman who loved computers and being in the office, had prepared summations on the two women. ‘Amelia Brice, thirty-one years of age, the daughter of Jeremy and Sue Brice. The father is the well-known social commentator. Amelia, educated privately, travelled extensively, fluent in French and English. Her occupation on her passport is listed as a model, but there’s little evidence of that. However, I did find some articles in various magazines that show her at Ascot, the opening of a fashion show. As you can see from the attached photos to my summary, she was an attractive woman. We also know, evidence at the murder scene, that she was using cocaine.’
‘And we know that Samuel Devon, the son of the other murdered woman, was involved with a gang that traded drugs,’ Isaac said.
Bridget continued. ‘Amelia Brice, one of the idle rich, not a person that Wendy would admire…’
‘You’re right there,’ Wendy said. All of the team in Isaac’s office knew of the sergeant’s disdain for those who took what life gave them and did nothing more, and in the case of the dead woman she had been given plenty.
‘As I was saying,’ Bridget continued. ‘Amelia Brice has no history of working, other than on a couple of occasions as a model, once or twice for a fashion magazine.’
Larry had drawn himself up on his chair, the first pangs of early morning hunger setting in. He knew where to go once the meeting concluded to get a full English breakfast.
‘We know about the cocaine use from the crime scene
examiners, and also I’ve found that the woman has been remanded for illegal drug use on a couple of occasions.’
‘What type of drugs?’
‘Cocaine. On both occasions, she got off with a hefty fine and community service.’
‘The penalty, at least for a second offence, would be custodial,’ Isaac said.
‘She put up an ardent defence: the death of her mother, break-up of a long-term romance.’
‘True?’
‘The mother had died, that much was correct. As for the romance, that’s unknown. Anyway, she had a Queen’s Counsel defending her.’
‘The father’s money?’
‘Probably.’
‘Bridget, what do we have on the father?’ Isaac asked, although he knew of the man, everyone did.
‘Jeremy Brice, social commentator. He’s on the television every night from 6 p.m. to 7 p.m. He’s not so controversial there. From 10 a.m. to midday, his programme on the radio is the highest rating in that timeslot. The man is known for his critical views of the police force in this city, its inability to deal with terrorism, and the government’s current immigration policy. Not only that, he’ll get on the bandwagon of any cause that will get him ratings.’
‘He’s the only one who can get the politicians to give a straight answer,’ Wendy said.
‘Is there any more on Amelia Brice?’ Isaac asked.
‘There’s more in my report, but I’ll let you all read that on your own.’
‘What can you tell us about Christine Devon?’
‘Christine Devon, forty years of age, born in Trinidad, arrived in this country twenty-one years ago. A British citizen, she has no criminal record. Her occupation is listed as a housewife, although she’s been working as a cleaner for the last ten. She paid her taxes on time. Three children: Billy, nineteen. Charisa, eighteen, and Samuel, fifteen.
‘Billy had a couple of run-ins with the law three years ago, petty hooliganism. Apart from that, the children are clean. The two eldest children have been in the station, so we know them. Samuel is missing, presumed dead.’
‘Any luck with him?’ Isaac asked.
‘We’re still looking,’ Wendy said. ‘We know where he was one day ago, but since then, nothing.’
***
Jeremy Brice, known to millions, was not the sort of person to sit quietly on any issue, and being told by a police officer that the investigation was progressing along established lines did not satisfy him. Isaac had tried to be diplomatic with him on the two occasions they had met, but each time the conversation had degenerated into Brice wanting to take control. Isaac, as the SIO, did not intend to give it to him, and now the man was bending the ear of Commissioner Davies, the belligerent leader of the Met, and well-known antagonist of DCI Isaac Cook and his senior.
Even though his daughter had only been dead for a short period of time, and not yet buried, Brice had been on the airwaves berating the police and their incompetence, revealing more than he should have about how his daughter had died. Isaac had listened a few times, realised that he was subjective with the truth. There was no mention of his daughter’s predilection for cocaine and the dubious company that she sometimes kept.
‘The man’s a bore,’ Commissioner Davies had said on the phone to Goddard. The superintendent thought that made two, but kept the observation to himself. ‘Deal with Brice, and get Cook involved. You’re a wet fish in dealing with the public. At least Cook, not that he’s much good as a police officer, knows how to communicate.’
Richard Goddard thought the man’s comments were offensive, but all he needed to do was to bide his time, and the commissioner would be out on his ear, due to his poor record of achievement.
‘Look here, Superintendent,’ Brice said as he sat in Goddard’s office, ‘my daughter’s been killed, then cut up by your pathologist, and your man here is refusing to give me her body to bury. What right does he have?’
‘This is a criminal investigation,’ Goddard said. He was sitting in his high-backed leather chair behind his desk. Brice and Isaac were seated on the other side.
‘Your daughter’s body is to be released in two days,’ Isaac said.
‘Why was I not told?’
‘Your office was informed.’
‘No one told me.’
‘You would have received notification according to the procedure. I suggest you contact your office to confirm it.’
‘If they’ve failed to tell me, then they’re for the high jump, I can tell you that.’
‘Mr Brice, why have you felt the need to contact Commissioner Davies and to insist on a meeting here in Superintendent Goddard’s office?’ Isaac asked. Goddard cringed, knowing they’d get negative criticism on Brice’s radio show if Isaac put the man on the spot.
‘You weren’t available.’
‘My phone is on twenty-four hours a day. I put it to you again, why did you not phone me?’
‘You’ve got some nerve, questioning me. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you realise that I could destroy your career?’
‘DCI, I suggest you desist. Mr Brice is an important man. It is not for you to put him on the spot,’ Goddard said.
Isaac thought that his senior was wrong in taking the soft approach, so did Brice. He leant over, gave Isaac a hearty pat on the back. ‘Good man, someone who’s willing to stand up and be counted.’
Isaac wasn’t sure what to say; his senior was equally confused. ‘Our best officer,’ Goddard said, the only words he could think of.
‘DCI, what can you tell me about my daughter’s death?’
‘Probably not a lot more than you already know. We believe it was professional, the same as the other woman.’
‘The black woman? Sorry, if that sounded racist,’ Brice said.
‘That’s our description of her,’ Isaac conceded.
‘Are the deaths related?’
‘We know they are. There’s clear evidence that both murders were committed by the same person, which raises other questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘Where Christine Devon lived is not the most salubrious area.’
‘A slum?’
‘Not technically, but it’s where the most deprived congregate.’
‘Violent?’
‘It can be, which means that a person who could walk freely in Holland Park could not necessarily do so where she lived. We’ve thought of a tradesman, although we’ve discounted that.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘We’ve checked the CCTV cameras in the area of your house. There’s a camera mounted on a traffic light not more than thirty feet away from your house. There is no sign of a handyman’s vehicle, no sign of a handyman. That’s not conclusive, and we’ve tried to correlate this with the movement around Christine Devon’s home, and yet again, no handyman.’
‘Amelia wouldn’t have let in a handyman.’
‘Why?’
‘If she were in the house on her own, she wouldn’t have felt safe.’
‘We’ve checked her friends. None of them claims to have visited her that day.’
‘Not a friend.’
‘Then who?’
‘Amelia had a problem. We’re all aware of that,’ Brice said.
‘Drugs?’
‘Cocaine, and the occasional rough man.’
‘We know about both.’
‘Maybe someone was coming around to sell her some drugs, or maybe it was one of her men.’
‘A black man?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘There’s no sign that she was with a man in the house.’
‘No signs of sexual congress, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then say it for what it is. No point beating around the bush here. My daughter was the indulged daughter of a rich man; she did little other than sleep around and take drugs.’
‘Disappointing?’ Goddard said.
‘Catch 22. I’m either out there making money for her to abuse
, or I’m at home acting as nursemaid to her.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Goddard, I suggest you read up or ask your DCI,’ Brice said. ‘My wife died five years ago, and before that, she had not been in her daughter’s life for some time. Amelia inherited her bad habits from her.’
‘My apologies.’
‘Accepted. After that, it was just Amelia and me. She was fine until a few years back, and then the drugs, and the highs and lows. I hired staff, but they never lasted long. For the past six months, there’s been no one permanent in the house, only people on an occasional basis to clean and look after the garden.’
‘Christine Devon had cleaned at your house.’
‘There were a few different women. I remember someone from Italy, but I wasn’t there often.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘I maintain a flat in Mayfair. I’m there most of the time.’
‘And you have the house in Holland Park?’
‘My daughter’s there on her own. And besides, I need my space.’
‘Space?’ Isaac asked.
‘A woman. Clear enough?’
‘If your daughter’s there on her own, we didn’t see any evidence of wild parties, drugs, apart from your daughter’s cocaine.’
‘Amelia could be antisocial, likely to throw tantrums. In the house, she’d be in her own little world. Outside, she’d be extroverted and game for anything.’
‘It must have been difficult for you.’
‘Emotionally, sometimes. And as for my woman, she’s a university lecturer. We keep our relationship secret, or at least, we don’t go to awards nights or film premieres together. At home, we’re just a boring couple doing our own things.’
‘Your friend and Amelia?’
‘Fireworks. Amelia’s spoilt. She’s never had to work a day in her life. My friend grew up on a council estate, worked three jobs to get through university, the same as me. We’ve both known poverty, Amelia never did. Maybe, if she had…’
‘It doesn’t pay to dwell on such matters,’ Isaac said.
‘I know, and I’ve no regrets about what has happened. She had a destructive streak, the same as her mother. Amelia had attempted suicide on a couple of occasions, so I’m not as upset as you would expect. Sad, of course, but her life was unusual, and she wasn’t a happy person.’
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