DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I’ll treat,’ Isaac said. He could see that the young man was worried. In the far corner of the store, the manager kept an eagle eye on his employee and the man in the suit he was speaking to.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the manager asked, moving quickly to waylay Isaac before he left the store.

  ‘DCI Cook, Homicide.’

  ‘And what do you want with Billy?’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘I don’t want my people involved in murder.’

  ‘How long have you been the manager?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘Then you are not aware of your employee's history.’

  ‘His history is not my concern; his ability to do his job is,’ the manager said. Isaac looked at the man: white, dark-hair parted in the middle, a surly disposition. Isaac did not like the man. If he knew what Billy had been up to, he’d have him out of the shop within the hour, but not before informing the police to let them know that he had apprehended a thief.

  ‘Mr Devon’s mother and brother were murdered.’

  ‘He’s a suspect?’

  ‘No. As far as I am concerned, I would take it as an affront on your part if you question Billy on the matter, or use your influence to remove him from this store.’

  ‘I don’t hold with his sort,’ the manager said.

  ‘What sort is that? The black sort?’

  ‘His involvement with murders.’

  ‘He has not been involved; he is an honest, law-abiding citizen. Any attempts by yourself and others to remove him from this store will be met with a strong rebuke from me and further investigation into you.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘It is not. Society is multicultural, and if you’ve looked, I’m black, as well.’

  ‘You’re different.’

  ‘Is it because I carry a badge?’

  ‘You’re educated, a police officer.’

  ‘I grew up around here. I know where you’re coming from.; I’ve experienced it all my life.’

  Isaac knew that he should not pass judgement on people, but he wanted the manager to back off. If he did a detailed audit of the stock in the shop, of sales made, he’d no doubt find anomalies.

  ‘I’m ready,’ Billy said.

  ‘Okay. The sandwiches are on me.’

  The two men left the shop and walked down the street. ‘He’s a bastard, that one,’ Billy said.

  ‘And you’re a fool for not contacting me.’

  The two men ordered their sandwiches and coffees, take away. Not far from the sandwich shop was a small park. One of the benches was vacant. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to Charisa,’ Billy said.

  ‘And how about you?’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  ‘No you can’t, and you know it. Level with me,’ Isaac said. ‘You’ve been stealing from the shop, trying to find the money.’

  ‘I’ll pay it back.’

  ‘No you won’t. That’s money stolen, not earned. It’ll take you years to make it back by honest graft. Your best hope is to tell me the truth of what happened.’

  ‘Okay. They picked me up not far from the shop and took me to a vacant block of land.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far. I can show you if it’s important.’

  ‘It’s not. What happened?’

  ‘Negril Bob, he was the one who told them to work on me.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Beat me up, make remarks about Charisa.’

  ‘What sort of remarks?’

  ‘You know what sort.’

  ‘How they were going to let her pay the money back.’

  ‘That’s it. They were crude though. It’s not the language I intend to repeat.’

  ‘Billy, you’re too gentle. These are violent men. They’ll have no issues with bleeding you dry and doing whatever they want with Charisa. How did you think you could protect her without the police?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking, just doing what I had to.’

  ‘And that manager at your shop, he’s a hater. You can’t keep stealing.’

  ‘I need to protect Charisa.’

  ‘You’ll not protect her this way.’

  ‘Then what do I do?’

  ‘I need the two of you to keep me informed.’

  ‘But how will you stop them taking her,’

  ‘And killing you.’

  ‘I’m not important.’

  ‘Stop acting the hero, you’re not the type. It’s you and Charisa now.’

  ‘She’s got Troy.’

  ‘You’re still family.’

  ‘Did Negril Bob and his gang kill Samuel?’

  ‘We don’t know. They may just be trying to cash in on your grief, or they could be acting under instructions. These men are garbage, don’t try to make out that they’re not.’

  ‘I know what they are. Once Charisa’s out of the country, I’ll try and make something of myself, maybe get an education.’

  ‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. The future’s up to you. I need to know what you’ve taken from the store, itemised, and I need it today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m going to get you out of trouble.’

  ‘You’re a friend.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’m doing what is right. If the manager reports you to the police, it’s a criminal case, and I can’t help you.’

  Chapter 11

  Quentin Waverley had been found out. His denials in the past about his relationship with Amelia Brice had come to nought. Gwen, his pregnant wife, had found out the truth, not through her husband or her former best friend, but through the police. ‘You bastard. You’ve been screwing Amelia, even after we were married. What kind of man does that?’ she said.

  ‘The type of man that’s not married to you.’

  ‘Wait till my father hears about this. He’ll have you out of the company.’

  ‘And then what will you do? You’re the wife of a merchant banker, one of the social elite. You’ll do nothing, and you’ll do it with a smile. Do I make myself clear?’ Waverley said.

  Gwen Waverley knew that he was right; she had married him, not out of an overriding love, but out of practicality. She wanted a man and children; her father’s merchant bank had needed someone to succeed him, and Quentin Waverley had fitted the bill. The fact that he was Amelia’s man had not come into it. Her father had agreed to the match, even helped plan her approach to the man, almost a hostile takeover.

  It had been planned that she and Quentin were naked in bed when Amelia had walked in. Quentin had not known; he had thought they had two hours, but Gwen had received a message: fifteen minutes.

  She had acted fast, touching him up and down his body, ensuring that he was salivating in anticipation, before hauling him up the stairs and removing all his clothes and hers just in time.

  When they had first moved in together after his bust-up with Amelia, they had made love every night, and he had had no time for any other, but then the first child came along, and now the second, and he was back to his old ways.

  ‘Did you kill her?’ Gwen asked. She knew that he hadn’t, but she could be argumentative, she knew that, and he needed to be brought to heel. After one child, with another on the way, she realised that she was not as firm as she had once been, not as tender to the touch, and her husband was a man who appreciated the beauty of a younger woman. If he was to take over the merchant bank, then he needed to respect that it was her who had put him there.

  Quentin Waverley reacted in the only way possible; he became angry for not having chosen Amelia over Gwen. But, all Amelia could offer was a famous father, whereas Gwen offered the chairmanship of a bank and a substantial fortune once her father died, and that would be only a few years in the future.

  ‘How dare you make such a scurrilous statement. I’ve a mind to…’

  ‘Mind to what? Hit me, give me a tongue lashing? You’re a weak excuse for a man. If only I had known.’

  ‘What do you mean? It
was you who seduced me, inveigled me into your bed. Amelia was a better proposition than you. Why would I have killed her? After your father dies, I could have had the bank and her, and now she’s gone. As for you, you can go to hell.’

  Gwen knew bluster, and her husband’s spouting was just that. The man was fiercely ambitious, and he did not intend to let anyone or anybody get in his way until he had full control. Gwen had never told him that there was an irrevocable clause, legally binding, that on the event of her father’s death the majority holding would be in her name, leaving her husband with forty-nine per cent. And if her husband left her or died, then full ownership reverted to the daughter.

  ‘But why Amelia? You know how I feel about her,’ Gwen said. The two of them were sitting down calmly. It was not the first time they had argued, and would not be the last, but Quentin knew why he was with Gwen. In part, it was because she was the way to a fortune, but also because she was the same as him.

  ‘And why not Amelia? Her father remains a friend, so had she. You might not understand, but I was with her for some time. The relationship never ended in the correct manner; it was unfinished business.’

  ‘Unfinished screwing, is that it?’

  ‘If you say so. I was still fond of the woman.’

  ‘But you preferred my father’s money.’

  ‘And you saw me as the father of your children. You used me; I used you. We’re very much alike, you and me,’ Waverley said.

  ‘Maybe we are, but Amelia’s dead and the police will not give up on who Q is. My denial will not hold them off for long.’

  ‘If it is becoming an issue, I’ll own up to it.’

  ‘You know what she thought of you at the end? What she may have written in her diary.’

  ‘I can deal with it.’

  ‘You’re a bastard for becoming involved with her again. You know what my father would say if he knew.’

  ‘Then it’s for us to never let him know. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed, but no more screwing.’

  ‘You know me better than that,’ Waverley said.

  ‘Unfortunately, I do. I chose you, faults and all. I’ve no intention of letting you leave me.’

  ‘And I’ve no intention of leaving, but a man’s got to have a hobby.’

  ‘You could always take up model aeroplanes,’ Gwen said.

  ‘I’d need more than one model,’ Waverley said. His wife knew it to be true. Regardless of what had occurred, what would occur again, she’d stay by her husband’s side.

  ***

  Larry met up with Rasta Joe. Begrudgingly, they had to admit they liked each other.

  ‘Negril Bob, what can you tell me about him?’ Larry said. It was the Westbourne pub again, Rasta Joe’s favourite.

  ‘You don’t want to mess with him,’ Rasta Joe said. Two of his gang were outside, keeping a watch. Larry couldn’t understand the life the man chose. It was clear that he was educated, even his former schoolmate Isaac Cook had said that, but the man wanted the life of a gang leader, making his money from selling drugs, running some women. There was a buoyant economy and a charismatic man such as the Jamaican could have made lawful money, no looking over the shoulder, no fear of a knife or a bullet.

  ‘Why?’ Larry asked. He’d ordered two pub lunches. In the three weeks since he had agreed to curb his eating and drinking, more on his DCI’s insistence than his wife’s, he had kept to her food, had even come to enjoy it, but today he was reverting to old habits. He knew that if he wanted Rasta Joe to talk, he’d need to prime him, and the man would take it as an insult if he kept to one beer and a salad.

  ‘He’s a violent man.’

  ‘Could he had killed Samuel Devon?’

  ‘It’s possible, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Devon was not involved with Negril Bob’s gang. The man is a standover merchant: extortion, stolen cars, that sort of thing. He doesn’t get involved with drugs.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘No reason. He’s just found a more profitable way of making money, and it’s easier to stay out of sight of the police.’

  ‘It’s still illegal.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but how can it be proved?’ Those he’s extorting from will not go to the police or give evidence. And he’s focussed on high-end cars: Bentleys, Rollers, Porsches, the occasional Ferrari. As soon as they’re stolen, they’re in a shipping container, the tracking device immobilised. The next time those cars appear, it’s a long way from England, no questions asked.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Larry said.

  ‘I’m trusting you.’

  ‘And you’re expecting me to turn a blind eye to what you’re up to.’

  ‘If you want me to talk.’

  ‘Negril Bob is threatening Samuel Devon’s brother. Is he working for someone?’

  ‘Probably, but not so easy to find out.’

  ‘What do you mean, difficult or dangerous?’

  ‘Both. You know how it works.’

  Larry could see himself going home drunk. A shame as he saw it, as his relations with his wife had been much improved for the last few weeks, but he had a job to do.

  ‘Very well,’ Rasta Joe said as he finished off his glass of beer, looking for another to be ordered. ‘The word is that Samuel Devon was killed by Negril Bob, on the order of Samuel’s gang.’

  ‘Harsh.’

  ‘They’re not the Boy Scouts. Devon had become smart, creaming off the drugs and the money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A few thousand pounds.’

  ‘Negril Bob mentioned twenty-two thousand pounds.’

  ‘He wants his commission.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s the deal?’

  ‘Devon’s gang or Negril Bob kills him, and then the other gang use Negril Bob to get back the lost money.’

  ‘Would he take Devon’s sister as payment in lieu?’

  ‘Of course he will. I’ve seen her, she’s attractive.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’ Larry asked.

  ‘You’re asking me? I’m not the police.’

  ‘You know how these people think.’

  ‘Get her out of the area.’

  ‘And her brother?’

  ‘If he doesn’t pay, they’ll continue to pressure him. He’s easier to deal with.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They can force him into crime. He can always burgle a shop or a house.’

  ‘The sister?’

  ‘You know what she can offer.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do.’

  It was past ten in the evening. Larry ordered the two men another pint each.

  ***

  Jeremy Brice, the father of a murdered daughter, had been hesitant to use his position to disparage the efforts of the police. The first that Isaac and his team heard of a change was when Bridget came into the office. ‘It’s the father. He’s on the radio, and he’s complaining about us.’

  ‘What is he saying?’ Isaac asked. The man had been pleasant enough in the dealings that the department had had with him, although his on-radio manner was full of pontificating and putting politicians and senior government officials on the spot, even the prime minister. None of them would refuse to talk to him, such was his ability to sway public opinion.

  The prime minister could hold his own, and some of his ministers could too, but most came away from a Brice debate chastened and feeling as though the world was about to cave in, which in the case of a few, it had. The man had a team of ten people behind him sourcing the stories, checking the facts, as well as a couple of sharp lawyers who would instruct him as to how far he could go.

  Bridget turned up the volume on the small radio she carried in her hand.

  The voice of Jeremy Brice was loud and clear. ‘Commissioner Davies, you’ve come in for a lot of criticism for the handling of the latest terrorist attacks in London.’

  ‘We’ve a team of highly-competent professionals at the Met,’
Davies replied.

  ‘Is it true that you have replaced the head of Counter Terrorism Command with someone that you personally knew.’

  ‘I have the utmost confidence in the man.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the public does not. There have been calls for you to resign, the previous head of Counter Terrorism Command to be given your job, and a new man assigned to deal with terrorism.’

  ‘I am unable to comment on the Met’s operations.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. You are aware that it has been mentioned in the Houses of Parliament on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Commissioner, your first truthful answer. Let me be the first to congratulate you, at least on that.’

  ‘I do not appreciate your sarcasm,’ Davies said.

  Isaac could see trouble up ahead. Davies would feel the need to react, and it was clear that Brice was being fed inside information.

  Brice chose to ignore Davies’s comment. ‘The previous commissioner had placed his faith in the leadership of Counter Terrorism, and the first thing that you did was to start bringing in your people. Why is this? Were you attempting to shore up your position, surround yourself with lackeys? And what about the death of my daughter, Amelia? I’ve been reluctant to talk about this before, out of sorrow for her death and that of the other woman, Christine Devon.’

  ‘We have a competent team working hard to solve the tragic death of your daughter,’ Davies said.

  ‘No doubt they’re hardworking, but my daughter’s death is still unsolved. How long will you allow this to continue? How long will you reward sycophancy? You’ve been given a job to do, that of the senior police officer in this city, and my listeners are asking questions, as are our political masters. Commissioner Davies, I have decided to speak at this time for the good of all of us, and for my daughter. It is time for you to stand up.’

  On the other end of the phone line, an inwardly seething man spoke calmly. ‘Mr Brice, your aspersions are ill-founded. Terrorism is not an easy issue to address, you must know that. Our activities are reducing the numbers of attacks, the recent changes in the law have given us more powers to act. Believe me, we will deal decisively with those who wish to undermine the values of this country; who believe that they have a right to murder.’