‘I checked on the internet. You’re known for your charitable causes. I believed that I was on safe ground with you.’
‘You are. What do you want from me?’
‘Billy’s manager will soon find out about the thefts. He needs to be pulled out of the store. Charisa needs protection.’
‘And the money that’s been stolen?’
‘It’s about eight thousand pounds,’ Isaac said.
‘And how much more does he need to pay off this gang?’
‘Twenty-six thousand pounds and accumulating, but I’m not suggesting that it’s paid. Once they know they can get that much money, they’ll increase the pressure on Billy Devon to give more.’
‘I came across these types of people when I first went into business in this country.’
‘I’m not advocating violence,’ Isaac said.
‘Nor am I, not at this time.’
‘In the past?’
‘It was before your time.’
Phillip Loeb called in his personal assistant. ‘Ann, DCI Cook will give you some details and a plan of action. You are to act on them immediately, is that understood?’
‘Yes, Mr Loeb.’
‘Inspector, you were right in coming here today. Courageous even.’
‘I don’t think so, sir. I knew that you were an honourable man.’
‘Billy Devon, where is he now?’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Good. We’ll get him out of this trouble and then consider him for managerial training.’
‘He’ll not let you down.’
‘And the mother’s murderer?’
‘We’re still working on that.’
Isaac left Loeb’s office and went next door to where the PA sat. The two of them went through the details of what was required. Ann, in her mid-thirties, dark-haired, interested Isaac. Forty-five minutes later, he left the office. In that time, the money needed to pay off Negril Bob had been organised, the troublesome manager at Billy’s store had been immediately transferred to another, and Billy was running the store as acting manager. Isaac spoke to Billy briefly to let him know what was happening. He also tried to phone Charisa, but her phone was not answering.
That weekend, if his work permitted, Isaac and Ann were meeting in Brighton for a meal. All in all, Isaac considered that his trip to Brighton had been successful.
***
Larry Hill felt guilt, Isaac felt a degree of sadness, and Wendy had shed a tear. All because a gang leader by the name of Rasta Joe had been found dead in an alleyway not far from Paddington Station. He wasn’t the first member of a gang to meet a violent death, for that had already happened to Samuel Devon, but Rasta Joe was different. Isaac had gone to school with him, even sang in the church choir every Sunday with him, and whereas one had chosen crime and the other had decided on the law, there was a bond that time could not diminish.
Larry assumed that he had died as a result of his association with him. They had become infrequent drinking buddies, and even if nothing was said that was controversial, the idea of a police officer and a gang leader was anathema to many. Wendy had shed a tear, not because she had known the man, but because her DCI and her DI had, and both of them were upset by his sudden death.
Goddard, their chief superintendent, was in the office on first hearing of the death, which was as well, as Isaac and Larry were heading off to the crime scene. ‘You knew this man?’ he said.
‘I went to school with him.’
‘Is this going to be the start of a gang war?’
‘We don’t know. We’ll have a clearer idea later today.’
‘Okay. Keep me posted, and Davies is on the warpath again.’
‘I thought that Jeremy Brice had clipped his wings,’ Isaac said. Both he and Larry were halfway out of the door, only hesitating at the name of their nemesis.
‘He had, but Davies is a fighter. He’ll go for broke, bring in whoever, and see where it all lands. If his timing is right, you’ll solve the current investigations just in time for his man to take your seat and claim the success.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Larry said.
‘What’s fair got to do with it. This is the real world. That fool Davies is no doubt phoning up right now will be packing his bags in the next day or so, and getting ready to take your position.’
‘We need to go to the crime scene, sir,’ Isaac said.
‘What’s holding you?’
‘Thank you,’ Isaac said. ‘We’ll talk when we return.’
***
Neither of the two men was prepared for the savagery of Rasta Joe’s death. Seeing him lying there, covered in blood, the knife wounds clearly visible on his semi-naked body, Isaac could only think back to the cherubic little black boy that had been his childhood friend. Larry could just see the man who was willing to talk as long as he was primed with beer.
The two men approached the body, remembering to put on shoe protectors and gloves. Gordon Windsor, the CSE, was due on the scene within the next twenty minutes. A group of onlookers were being kept at a distance by a couple of uniforms.
‘Did he die here?’ Larry asked.
‘I’d say so, judging by the blood.’
One of the uniforms came over. ‘I’ve got a witness,’ he said.
Isaac and Larry left the dead man lying on the ground and walked over to the witness. Isaac could see that the man was dishevelled, probably homeless, almost certainly drunk. Not the ideal witness, he’d have to admit, but it was better than none.
‘What did you see?’ Larry asked.
‘I was walking up here last night. It was late, close to midnight. I saw the car pull up.’
‘Did they see you?’
‘Not me. I know how to stay hidden.’
‘Why were you up here?’
‘Sometimes I spend the night here.’
Isaac asked one of the uniforms to organise the man a coffee and something to eat.
The three men sat down on some old wooden crates stacked in a corner.
‘What did you see?’ Isaac asked.
‘I was up past that bin.’
Isaac and Larry looked; there was a bin thirty feet away.
‘It was dark, could you see anything?’
‘I could hear them arguing. The dead man was pleading for his life, the other men attacking him.’
‘You could have called for help?’
‘Not me, and besides, the only way out was past them. If I had moved, they would have killed me as well.’
‘What was said? Do you remember anything?’
‘They called the man Rasta Joe, the others, I don’t know what their names were.’
‘Was there a leader?’
‘There was one, the others called him Negro.’
‘Negril Bob?’
‘That’s it. It’s an odd name.’
‘It’s the name of a place in Jamaica.’
‘That’s why I couldn’t understand everything they said.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They spoke with a strange accent.’
Isaac mimicked the Jamaican style of speech.
‘You’re not one of them, are you?’
‘Not me, but we know who they are. Did they say why they killed him?’
‘Not that I could understand. They were vicious.’
‘If we need to contact you again?’
‘Just wander around the area, ask for Gappy, you’ll find me.’
***
An alley around the back of Paddington Station was not the most salubrious place at any time. The crime scene investigators were at the scene, the uniforms were out at the entrance to the alley, organising the barriers, trying to move on those heading to the railway station and those leaving, and, as always, there was someone from the media.
Isaac, intentionally polite with the media and an accomplished performer whenever a camera was placed in front of him, was not willing to indulge the reporter this time; he had more important things to do.
Firstly, there was Negril Bob to deal with, not so easy unless the CSIs came up with some evidence, which seemed possible. A gang killing was not usually the most subtle, and not professional. Neither Isaac nor Larry could imagine that they would have been wearing gloves or attempting to conceal their faces from the CCTV cameras located all around the railway station. Initially, they were put there to control the movement of passengers, but now they had increased in numbers to assist with terrorism.
Larry made a phone call as he and his DCI drove towards their first destination. His wife had expected him home at a reasonable hour that night; her parents were coming over, and he was required. He had to tell her way in advance that it was unlikely he would make it on time. The death of a gang leader, not the only gang in the area, was bound to have recriminations. Tit for tat, you kill one of mine, I’ll kill one of yours, and now, Negril Bob, one of the most violent leaders, had killed one of the more passive ones.
Isaac could see trouble with a capital T, and this time Commissioner Alwyn Davies would be interceding. A gang war in London was bound to be a media event, and Isaac was not sure how to proceed.
And if Negril Bob could kill Rasta Joe, he could also kill Billy Devon and take his sister at any time. The two police officers pulled up outside Billy’s shop. The man was busy inside. He finished with the customer and came over. ‘Takings are up. Thanks for what you did. I had a phone call from Mr Loeb.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said that you had seen him and that I was on probation. If I did a good job, he’d see me right. It’s not what I expected.’
‘There’s a bigger problem,’ Larry said. Time was of the essence, and self-congratulatory pats on the back could wait for later. ‘Negril Bob’s killed another gang leader, Rasta Joe.’
‘I don’t know him,’ Billy said. Another customer had come into the shop; he was anxious to get to him before he walked out.
‘We do,’ Isaac said. ‘I went to school with him, Larry’s been in contact with him.’
‘I need to deal with this customer.’
‘Billy, this is serious. Negril Bob is acting irrationally. He could come for you.’
‘I’m not leaving here. Mr Loeb’s placed his trust in me. I don’t intend to let him down.’
‘Very well,’ Isaac said. ‘Phone us if he shows up. Where’s your sister?’
‘At college.’
Isaac drove to the college, passing by Challis Street to drop off Larry, and parked close to the administration office. He knew that he had parked across the rear of two cars; he put a police sign on the dashboard and a number to contact. Time was critical, and he needed to see that Charisa was secure.
Isaac had to show his ID to the woman in admin, and three minutes later Charisa entered the room. ‘DCI Cook, what is it? Her face showed alarm.
‘We needed to check that you were okay.’
‘I am. Troy’s coming back tonight.’
‘I need you to phone my office every hour on the hour, is that understood?’
‘If you want me to. What’s happened?’
‘Negril Bob has killed another gang leader. We’re preparing for trouble.’
‘He’ll leave us alone, won’t he?’
‘We don’t know. Don’t leave here without phoning us first, and if you move from one place to the next, you must inform us. Is that clear?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We’ll try and find those responsible for the murder. If they’re charged, and in custody, then we can all sleep easy.’
‘Until then?’ Charisa asked.
‘We will all worry.’
***
Gwen Waverley paced around her home. The father of her children, the man she had loved, still did to some extent, had been leading a double life. The devoted family man, the senior partner in her father’s merchant bank, had also been seeing Amelia Brice, his former lover. And now, she couldn’t be sure of him; was he playing around with the woman in his office, or maybe it was someone else? Whoever and whatever it was, she would not tolerate anything other than total devotion to her. And as for Amelia’s father, the man who had tried to get her husband and his daughter back together after she, the daughter of a merchant banker, had snared the man from the daughter of a minor celebrity, she’d deal with him in time.
Quentin, she knew, had been ambitious back then, though a little rough around the edges, edges she had been smoothing, and now he was playing the field, seeing what piece of fluff was susceptible to his charm. She had been receptive to it; she had seen the potential, and now she had no intention of letting anyone else, Amelia or no Amelia, take him away from her. In her anger, she picked up a plate that had just been removed from the dishwasher and flung it down on the tiled floor, smashing it into pieces. It felt good. She picked up another and broke it.
I’ll leave the plates there, she thought. Let Quentin see the extent of my anger.
She moved to the other room, closer to the drinks cabinet, and poured herself a gin. She gulped it down in one. For a moment, she remembered that the doctor had told her to go easy on the alcohol while she was pregnant.
‘To hell with him and his damn advice,’ she said out loud, although the house was empty and no one would hear. She then poured herself another drink and went and sat down in her favourite chair. On the television, an American soap opera.
What has my life come to, she thought. If Quentin wants to enjoy the good life, it’s not happening at the expense of my carrying his children, and not as a result of my father’s generosity.
Chapter 14
Shirley O’Rourke was back in business, the door to her office open. She was welcoming as Wendy entered through the front door. ‘We’ve got a special rate for today,’ she said.
‘Not for me,’ Wendy said. ‘Once a week I clean the house. I don’t have the money your clients do.’
‘There are not many left that do. You’ve frightened them off.’
‘The Brices?’
‘We’re back there. Jeremy’s moved in, with his girlfriend.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve been over there. She’s an educated woman, not like me.’
‘You’re smarter than you think. You certainly did a good job with your financial records, your attempts at not paying tax.’
‘I did nothing illegal. When can I have them back?’
‘There was an insurance claim, a house in Bayswater. Supposedly, a painting was damaged beyond repair. One of your cleaning team went crazy and put a knife through it.’
‘The woman had marital problems. She took her anger out on the painting.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘It was modern art. For whatever reason, the woman flipped. The owner had it insured; I had insurance. Is there a problem?’
‘Apart from the fact that further testing six months later it was found to be fake.’
‘So?’
‘Did you know that the owners, who’ve since disappeared, knew that?’
‘Not me. The claim was settled with the owners by the insurance company, and I paid an excess for my insurance, as well.’
‘The claim was for three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
‘I know that.’
Wendy looked at the woman, attempting to see if there were any tell-tale signs of lying: the beads of sweat on the forehead, the fidgeting, the avoidance of eye contact. She could see none.
‘The cleaner?’
‘I kept her on for a couple of months. After that, she left and went back to her home country.’
‘She went back with money in her pocket; we’ve checked,’ Wendy said. ‘Once back there, she bought a small house, not expensive by English standards. And you paid fifty-five thousand pounds off your mortgage, and the painting’s owners left the country.’
‘I acted correctly.’
‘The only issue is whether you knew it was fraud on the owner’s part.’
‘I
did not. I’ve told you, I play it tough but fair.’
‘Then where did the fifty-five thousand pounds come from?’
‘Are you accusing me?’
‘Not at this time. We are attempting to make contact with the painting’s owners. If there is a case to answer, then I will return.’
‘There is no case. I have told you the truth,’ Shirley O’Rourke said. Wendy knew that she had not. It was only one of several cases of potential fraud that had been uncovered and the Fraud team at Challis Street were working with the insurance companies.
‘Insurance fraud, purposely damaging property for financial gain, are criminal offences. They are subject to a custodial sentence, you do realise this?’
‘I understand the law. That is why I vet my employees.’
‘If you admit to your guilt it will go in your favour,’ Wendy said.
‘There is no guilt.’
‘Insurance fraud is a possible motive for the murders of the two women.’
‘Unless you have any more accusations, I suggest that you leave, or we’ll meet again with my legal representative.’
‘I’ve no more questions, but remember, your confession will help you later. If the two women were murdered as a result of fraud at the Brice house, then you could become an accessory to murder. That could be a long term in prison. You were leaving the country once before. I’d suggest that you do not attempt to leave now.’
‘I will not leave.’
***
Gordon Windsor confirmed that the death of Rasta Joe had been as a result of multiple knife wounds. There was also evidence that he had been beaten severely and that his hands had been tied. Also, that four people had been at the crime scene: three inflicting the violence, the fourth on the receiving end.
Isaac and Larry had not needed the CSE’s report. The witness at the scene had given them enough information to bring Negril Bob into the station, not that he would come quietly. Even in the area, there were small pockets where the police did not enter unless in numbers, and two police inspectors would have no chance.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 134