‘Any ideas as to why she was killed?’
‘We’ve been through this before.’
‘Last time, you weren’t on our side,’ Isaac said.
‘True. I’ll go easier on you from now on.’
‘You haven’t answered the original question.’
‘I don’t know anyone who’d want her dead. Some of the men she entertained would have been regarded as dubious, but murder: that’s something else.’
‘The dilemma we have is that if your daughter and the cleaner have been murdered for the same reason, then what is it?’
‘I’m an open book. I suggest you talk to the men she went around with.’
‘We have. The murders were professional, more like assassinations. The gangs around here are mainly poorly educated individuals. This seems too complex for them.’
Chapter 4
It wasn’t expected that Isaac would attend the funeral of Christine Devon, but for some reason, he felt the need to. His parents had experienced grinding poverty when they had first arrived in England, and there seemed to be an empathy between him and the two eldest children of the murdered woman. The church was full to overflowing. There were a few faces from his earlier years; some recognised him, some didn’t. Others avoided him because he was a police officer, but he wasn’t there to conduct an investigation; he was there to support the family. Charisa, the daughter, was being consoled by her elder brother. Samuel, the youngest, had still not been seen.
The priest led the congregation in prayer and praise of the woman. Charisa said a few words, interspersed with tears, as did Billy, her brother, even mentioning Samuel’s name. At the end, a typical Caribbean religious service, the congregation burst into song, the type of song that made Isaac proud be a West Indian. Even he joined in, and it had been some time since he had been in a church.
‘I didn’t expect to see you,’ a familiar voice said. Isaac looked behind him.
‘Rasta Joe,’ he said. The man was a school friend, but they were friends no more after one had joined the police, the other, gangs and drugs.
‘I thought you had embraced the white man’s world,’ the dreadlocked man said.
‘I still remember where my parents came from. Christine Devon deserves a proper send-off.’
Rasta Joe, flanked on either side by two of his gang members, turned to them. ‘This man is cool. He’ll not trouble us today.’
Isaac knew of the antipathy towards anyone who represented the police, and the church was in the centre of the gang’s heartland. ‘Samuel Devon?’
‘He’s not been seen.’
‘Killing of a fifteen-year-old youth seems extreme.’
‘There are some who wouldn’t have a problem. And don’t come snooping around here at any other time.’
‘Not good for my health, is that it?’
‘Not from us.’
Isaac could see that Rasta Joe had cleaned himself up for the ceremony.
‘You know the family? Isaac asked.
‘They were not involved in anything wrong if that’s what you’re fishing for.’
‘What about Samuel Devon? You owe that to his brother and sister, to Christine Devon.’
‘We don’t owe anyone anything. We do what we want.’
‘Where can I find someone that will talk?’
‘Not around here.’
‘Who murdered his mother? Do you know that? And how about Amelia Brice? Someone was supplying her with cocaine.’
‘Isaac, drop it. We didn’t kill Christine Devon; and as for Amelia, we knew her. If she was taking drugs, she didn’t get them from us.’
Isaac knew that Rasta Joe was not usually a man to be trusted, but this time he did. After the service he went to talk to the daughter of the woman they had congregated for. Charisa Devon was pleased to see him. ‘Samuel, we’ve not heard from him.’
‘We’ve had no leads either, other than the word on the street.’
‘That he’s dead.’
‘Is he?’ Isaac asked.
‘We think so. We pray every night, hope that he’ll come home, but it’s only wishful thinking.’
‘His disappearance, your mother’s death, are they related?’
‘Why would someone kill her? She minded her own business.’
‘It’s tied in with Amelia Brice.’
‘Then maybe you should ask there. We had nothing worth stealing, no great secrets. Mum was a battler, Billy’s a hard worker, and I’m a student.’
‘Any strange occurrences since?’
‘We’ve not been back to look, other than to take our personal belongings.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘With my boyfriend.’
‘And Billy?’
‘He’s sharing a flat with some of his friends, probably getting up to mischief.’
‘Mischief?’
‘You’ve met Billy. He’s popular with the girls. He tried to sneak one into the flat one night, Mum went spare. Where he is now, there’ll be no issues. At least they keep his mind off what happened.’
‘And you?’
‘I try, but sometimes I get upset, thinking about what Mum went through.’
‘It’s best not to dwell on it,’ Isaac said.
***
Amelia Brice was buried in the family plot in the local churchyard. Isaac had watched from a distance. He saw Jeremy Brice arrive in the company of a woman.
Nothing was said at the service and in the media about Amelia’s issues with rough men and cocaine; Isaac assumed that the father had pulled in favours to keep the disturbing parts of his daughter’s life quiet. Jeremy Brice, an abrasive personality on the radio and the television, had been remarkably pleasant after Isaac had broken through his cover. They had met on two other occasions since to discuss Amelia’s death. Isaac thought the man to be cold, considering that she had died, or maybe he was stoic, not a man who showed emotion readily.
Isaac had felt a tear at Christine Devon’s funeral, but nothing as he stood across from the churchyard at Amelia’s. The constable on duty had recognised him, offered to let him through, but Isaac had declined, and besides, there were more pressing issues to deal with.
For once, Commissioner Davies was holding back; Isaac assumed that Brice had had a word in his ear, but the man was pushing hard to find out who had killed his daughter. Isaac knew that he would not have long.
It was straight up to Superintendent Goddard’s office on Isaac’s return from the church. The man was in a good mood. ‘What’s the latest? Any breakthroughs?’
Too often Isaac had been called into his senior’s office to listen to his invective about why the investigation was going too slowly, or the results were poor, or the budget was being exceeded. This time was different. He wondered why.
‘Davies phoned up and congratulated us.’
‘For what?’
‘The current investigation into the death of the two women.’
‘We haven’t done anything,’ Isaac said. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Perceptions, I suppose.’
‘Or Brice singing our praises. Our commissioner is easily hoodwinked. Brice could change on the turn of a coin.’
‘Enjoy it while you can, Isaac.’
‘I can’t while one of the women’s sons is missing and we haven’t got a clue who killed her and why.’
‘Brice, could he know something?’
‘It seems unlikely. Why would he kill his own daughter? And besides, it would need a third party.’
‘Why?’
‘Jeremy Brice would not have the strength to kill either of the women.’
‘Why do you say that? He seemed fit enough the day he was here.’
‘He suffers from a form of upper muscular atrophy, the result of a car accident in his youth. He wouldn’t be able to apply sufficient pressure.’
‘He told you?’
‘I checked with his doctor.’
***
Isaac felt it was his respons
ibility. He picked up Billy Devon from his work and then swung by Charisa’s place of learning. The road was busy, no parking. He displayed his permit on the window and left the car close to a set of traffic lights. Under normal circumstances, he would have driven around the area until he had found somewhere better. ‘What is it?’ Billy asked when he was picked up.
‘It’s Samuel.’
‘Is he…?’
‘It’s not confirmed yet, but it’s almost certain. I didn’t want you two to find out through the grapevine.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Let’s get your sister first.’
Isaac found one of the lecturers who directed them to the correct room. Isaac stuck his head in the door, introduced himself to the lecturer and scanned for Charisa. She was head down, studying. ‘Charisa,’ Isaac called.
The young woman lifted her head, took one look and burst into tears. ‘It’s Samuel, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve got Billy with me. It would be best if you are both at Challis Street.’
‘I want to see him,’ Charisa said. Her classmates were hovering close to her, some were in tears, some were placing their hands on her, one had her arm around her.
The three left the college and walked briskly to Isaac’s car. Inside the car, Billy and Charisa sat in the back seat. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘The River Thames at Hammersmith.’
‘We’re going there?’
‘It’s a crime scene. You won’t be able to get close.’
‘I want to be there. You can do that at least for us.’
Isaac relented and made the short drive to the river. Out on the mud flats at the side of the river was a team of men. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and see what the situation is.’
‘We want to see him, regardless.’
Isaac kitted up, realised that whatever happened he was going to be covered in mud. At the scene, Grant Meston, Gordon Windsor’s colleague, was taking charge.
‘Gordon?’ Isaac asked.
‘Fell down, twisted his ankle. I’m taking charge of this today.’
‘What do you have?’
‘Male, black, age between twelve and nineteen.’
‘What’s the cause of death?’
‘There’s evidence of violence.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a knife wound in the body.’
‘Fatal?’
‘Probably not, but he would have been unconscious when he was thrown into the Thames.’
‘He’s just reappeared?’
‘Nothing to do with those who killed him. He’s been weighted down, but the low water level revealed the chain above the water. Some local lads out for a lark pulled on it and up came the body.’
‘Is he identifiable?’
‘It’s not a pretty sight but if someone knew him when he was alive, then maybe. Anyone in mind?’
‘His brother and sister, nineteen and eighteen.’
‘Don’t let the sister see the body.’
‘I’ll not be able to keep her away. How long before you take it from here?’
‘Twenty minutes. I’ll try and clean it up first.’
‘Thanks.’
Isaac returned to Billy and Charisa. ‘Twenty minutes and they’ll bring the body up here.’
‘Is it?’
‘Billy, are you up to identifying the body?’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘So will I,’ Charisa said.
‘The body’s been in the water for some time. It would be best if you don’t.’
‘He’s my brother. I want to see him.’
***
The crime scene team brought the body up from the river bank. An attempt had been made by them to improve its appearance, especially the face. A vehicle was there to take it to Pathology, for the autopsy. Isaac stood with Billy and Charisa Devon, holding the young woman back. ‘I want to see him,’ she said.
Isaac could understand the sentiment, but knew full well that most people’s reaction, if they were not used to it, would be to stare at the body before vomiting. It had happened to him a few times, but now he was impervious to it, although he could emote with the two who were to be confronted with the reality of a dead sibling, and only just after their mother had died.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Isaac said.
‘Yes,’ came the reply in unison.
Grant Meston positioned himself close to the head of the body, the two teenagers nearer to its waist. Meston unzipped the body bag at the top and peeled it open enough for the face to be visible. Billy stared, transfixed by the scene; Charisa grabbed hold of Isaac’s hand and held it hard. ‘It’s Samuel,’ she said. Billy, the colour in his face drained, ran from the site and vomited in the gutter beside the road. Charisa stayed where she was as Meston rezipped the bag. Isaac made a phone call to Challis Street.
Isaac had to admit that he had been surprised by the reaction of the dead man’s sister, although he had noticed that she was the stronger of the remaining children of the murdered woman. One hour later, and after drinking some tea, both of them were better. ‘It was going to happen one day,’ Charisa said.
‘It’s all too common,’ Isaac said, by way of consolation. The young man had run with a gang. He’d apparently cheated on one of them, either out of sheer stupidity or because he thought he was smarter than them, and they had dealt with him. It wasn’t the first gang-related death in London, and sometimes a person would disappear, never to be seen again.
‘At least you know. You’ll have closure,’ Isaac said when Billy Devon commented on what he had seen.
‘Do you get used to it?’
‘You become immune to the sight of death. You can never get used to the reaction of loved ones of the deceased, of telling them that there’s been an accident, or that someone’s been murdered.’
‘But you were emotionless back there.’
‘I’m trained to deal with it, and I’ve seen much worse. In time, you’ll be able to deal with what has happened in your lives.’
‘Our mother?’ Billy said. The colour had returned to his face.
‘We’re still working on that. Is there any more that you can tell me?’
‘Our mother always taught us right from wrong, and she was at church every Sunday.’
‘We know that she cleaned Amelia Brice’s house.’
‘First she was murdered, and now Samuel,’ Charisa said.
Isaac, sadder than he should be, left Billy and Charisa at the house of an aunt. ‘We’ll be fine,’ they said. He knew they would be. They had grown up in an area of London where violent death was not uncommon, and time was a great healer.
Back at the station, Bridget had pinned up a photo of the dead youth. ‘Is his death related to the women?’ she asked Isaac as he walked in the door.
‘We’ll treat them as unrelated for the time being. You’ll need to open another case file.’
‘I’ve already started. There’s not much in it at present.’
Isaac grabbed himself a coffee from the machine in the corner. It looked good, but he knew good coffee when he drank it, and this was far from excellent. ‘Where’s the team?’
‘Wendy’s out checking on Christine Devon’s movements. Larry’s over at the Brice house.
‘With the father?’
‘No. He wanted to spend a few hours going through the place.’
‘Okay. Set up a meeting for 2 p.m. We’ll discuss what we have so far.’
‘And what do we have, sir?’
‘Three dead bodies. One’s gangland, may not be so easy to solve.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The people that Samuel Devon associated with regard life as expendable. Instead of roughing him up, they kill him.’
‘You grew up with them. You must understand them.’
Isaac did not feel inclined to talk more. He moved away to his office. Bridget returned to her desk and her computer. Above the monitor a picture of two cats, the cats that Wendy ha
d rescued from a dead woman in another case. She entered the password on her computer, the file of Samuel Devon was visible, and she inputted what they had so far, noted that the body had been identified.
In his office, Isaac sat back in his chair. For him, no photos of cats, no pictures of loved ones. He picked up his phone and dialled. ‘Jess, are you free this Friday?’ he said.
‘Not this Friday, maybe next. I’m too busy,’ was Jess O’Neill’s reply.
He knew that the romance that had gone on for too long was dead, and that busy had been an excuse. He would phone her again some time, but for now he was lonely, and all he had was a Homicide department, his team, and three bodies. Somehow, to him, it did not seem sufficient. He got up from his chair and went out to see Bridget. For some reason, the sadness of the day had got to him. ‘Bridget, do we have the reports back from Pathology for the two women?’
‘They’re on the shared drive.’
He realised that he was making idle conversation. Another phone call, this time for him. ‘Isaac Cook,’ he answered.
‘I’m at the Brices,’ Larry said. ‘Are you free?’
‘Do you want me there?’
‘If you could.’
Chapter 5
Isaac arrived at the Brice house in Holland Park within twelve minutes. He was glad to be out of the office.
‘Samuel Devon, unpleasant sight?’ Larry said on meeting him at the front door.
‘Not the worst I’ve seen.’
‘And the siblings?’
‘They handled it well enough. When you get a chance, you’d better use your contact to find out who killed Samuel Devon.’
‘He’s your contact as well. You went to school with him.’
‘Rasta Joe’s playing a dangerous game. He could end up dead as well.’
‘He knows that, but his love for me buying him pints of beer keeps drawing him back.’
‘One day, they’ll be fishing him out of the river. What do you have here?’ Isaac asked.
The two men walked through the house and up the stairs to the first floor. They were wearing foot protectors and gloves, even though the house had been handed back to Jeremy Brice. He was moving back in, this time with his girlfriend, although he wanted the room where his daughter had been killed to be redecorated and changed into a walk-in wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to be forced to remember,’ he had said.
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