DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  Amelia had an innocence about her, a vulnerability, whereas Gwen was hard and cruel. Amelia was the type of person to take in a neglected dog; Gwen would have fed it meat laced with rat poison.

  Waverley knew there’d be fallout from hitting Gwen. Her father, a brilliant man, had made a fortune in London by setting up the merchant bank. He had a reputation as a fearless adversary, a loyal friend, and now the bond of friendship between the man and his son-in-law was irrevocably broken. It had been made clear when he had asked Gwen’s father for his daughter’s hand in marriage that her father would not tolerate his precious daughter being upset in any way, and now he had hit her, and she’d be sure to tell her father.

  Waverley phoned Gwen from his office when he arrived. ‘Sorry, the stress of work,’ he said.

  ‘I understand,’ Gwen said. ‘We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘I’ve not told him.’

  Waverley breathed a sigh of relief, one less problem to deal with.

  ***

  Larry arrived in the office at Challis Street. It was already past 9 p.m. ‘Rasta Joe’s wife identified the body.’

  ‘How is she?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Fine. It appears Rasta Joe was supporting his family.’

  ‘I knew Gloria.’

  ‘You never mentioned it.’

  ‘Was it important? I knew that she’d want her privacy respected.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We were all friends when we were young. She was always a very private person, but she had wanted Joe. They were total opposites, but I had heard that she was fine.’

  ‘And if she wasn’t?’

  ‘I would have done something for her.’

  ‘Where are we in our hunt for Negril Bob?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Billy and Charisa Devon are fine. They’ve seen no sign of him.’

  ‘He’s not the sort of person to lie low for too long.’

  ‘He’ll be around here somewhere. Probably someone’s protecting him.’

  ‘He could leave London.’

  ‘Not him, or, at least not for long. His support network is here. Anywhere else, he’ll just be another hustler out on the street. He’ll be weighing up the options, checking out the case against him, seeing if he can get out of the crime.’

  ‘Can he?’

  ‘It’s always possible with a smart lawyer. The evidence at the crime scene is not strong, against him at least. We have fingerprint matches on the other two, although they’re not very good, but not his.’

  ‘But the homeless man said he’d heard his name called out and his replying.’

  ‘Reliable witness?’

  ‘In a courtroom, in the witness box? Five minutes of rapid questioning from a smart lawyer and he wouldn’t even be able to remember his own name.’

  Chapter 16

  Gwen Waverley phoned her father. She knew there was a risk that it could backfire, but she could not let Quentin get the upper hand. He had been willing to throw her over for Amelia if he had half a chance, and he was still an attractive man; he’d find another one soon enough to replace her. ‘Quentin hit me,’ she said. She knew the reaction to expect.

  ‘That man will pay for hitting my little girl.’

  Gwen forgot to mention that she had hit her husband on a few occasions, not that her father would be concerned. The relationship between father and daughter was all that was important, not that of the interloper who had married one and ingratiated himself with the other.

  ‘I’m fine. He was angry after I accused him.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That he was seeing Amelia Brice.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. I could smell her on him sometimes.’ Gwen knew she had told a lie. Her father was a man who doted on his daughter, and whatever she told him, he believed. It had been the same when she was young, and even up through puberty and the raging hormones and the boys she had slept with.

  Her father had trusted her implicitly, even taken her side when the evidence was overwhelmingly against her. She loved him for it, this blind trust in her. She knew that Quentin was in trouble, and if she handled it well enough, she’d have him back under her control with no legal way to get out, not if he wanted to run the bank.

  George Happold was not a fool, and whether it was the truth that he had been told or a fabrication did not concern him. He was a man who supported his family against all others. And now, his daughter’s husband was hitting her when she was pregnant. Happold rose from his chair and walked down the corridor of the top floor of the bank’s headquarters.

  On one of the doors, a sign: Quentin Waverley, Senior Director. George Happold listened at the door, no sound emanating from inside. He knocked with a closed fist and opened the door.

  ‘George, what can I do for you?’ Quentin Waverley said, surprised to see the bank’s chairman in his office.

  ‘Are you in the habit of hitting Gwen?’

  ‘It’s a misunderstanding, nothing more.’

  ‘You bastard, how dare you assault my daughter and call it a misunderstanding. If I were younger, I’d take you out of here and thrash you to within an inch of your life.’

  ‘You? You could barely lift the skin off a rice pudding. Look at you, all skin and bones. You’re hardly likely to last until the end of the year.’ Waverley knew he was playing a dangerous game. Whatever happened with George Happold, it wasn’t going to help to be subservient and allowing the man to get the upper hand. Happold, he knew, was a bully who intimidated if he could.

  ‘I could have you out of here today. And then what will you do?’

  ‘You won’t do that. I’m married to your daughter, father to your grandchildren. You’ll put up with me, and so will Gwen. She accused me of sleeping with Amelia Brice. I’m not guilty of that, at least.’

  ‘I knew you’d be trouble,’ Happold said.

  ‘No, you didn’t. The two of you thought I could be controlled, and believe me, I have been. Did you put your daughter up to it?’

  ‘Up to what?’

  ‘Did you arrange with her to make sure that I was in bed with her when Amelia walked in?’ Are you that devious that you’d allow your daughter to be a whore?’

  ‘I thought you loved my daughter.’

  ‘I did. Now I’m not so sure, but you, dear father-in-law, had better get used to it. I’m taking over this bank from you, and I’m going to make it work.’

  ‘You ungrateful bastard.’

  ‘You never answered my question. Am I the prize bull only fit for mating with your daughter or am I going to run this bank as well?’

  ‘You’ll run it well, but don’t go hitting my daughter.’

  ‘And you tell her to stop phoning daddy every time there’s a problem, and tell her to back off accusing me of something I did not do.’

  ***

  Isaac still had an arrangement to meet up with Ann, Phillip Loeb’s PA. Their first attempt at getting together had been deferred due to the death of Rasta Joe; their second, scheduled for the weekend coming, looked doubtful as well.

  So far, there had been four murders, with one investigation almost wrapped up once Negril Bob was found. One out of four was not good considering the time that had been expended. Isaac had to admit that he was becoming jaundiced by the ongoing investigation; he needed Ann, the attractive and personable PA. He made a phone call. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. Looking forward to the weekend,’ Ann replied. She was in Brighton, he was in London. It was an easy commute and ideal for a relationship, and she was giving hints that it would be more than a meal and a couple of drinks.

  Isaac would have liked to spend more time talking to her, but Goddard, his DCS, was making his way into the office.

  ‘See you at the weekend, I hope,’ Isaac said to Ann and ended the phone call. She was a busy woman, the same as him, she would understand.

  ‘DCS, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Brice has been sou
nding off again on that damn radio programme of his.’

  ‘The usual?’

  ‘Yes,’ Goddard said. Isaac could see that he had something on his mind.

  ‘What is it?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Commissioner Davies has had a few wins lately.’

  ‘He’ll hang on for a while yet?’

  ‘Until the next terrorist attack, I suppose. It looks as if you and I will be here for a while longer.’

  ‘If Davies is feeling secure, he’ll attempt to bring in his people.’

  ‘Be prepared. I’m aware that you and your team are working hard on the current investigations, but I can’t hold the man off for too long.’

  ‘Is he pushing?’

  ‘He is. He’s on the phone to me every other day. The man never gives up.’

  ‘A political animal,’ Isaac said. ‘Pushes when he can; holds back to ride out the storm.’

  ‘So am I,’ Goddard said. ‘You know that the usurper who took your seat for a while, made a right hash of it, is now a detective superintendent?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been told. It grated at the time.’

  ‘Don’t let it get to you. Incompetency does rise to the top occasionally.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel like taking the easy life,’ Isaac said.

  ‘No, you don’t. You’re just frustrated by a difficult investigation, and the imminent interference of Commissioner Davies.’

  ‘Imminent?’

  ‘He’s about to start his visits out to see his empire. He’ll be here at some time. It’d be nice if we could head him off at the pass.’

  ‘By wrapping up this investigation?’

  ‘What about Brice’s daughter?’

  ‘We’re drawing blanks. We know the death was not committed by an amateur, but why? The woman was an open book. She was promiscuous, into drugs, and did very little with her life except for sponging off her father. It’s hardly a reason to be killed.’

  ‘Her father?’

  ‘We’ve not made any connection. He’s back in the house with his girlfriend, but we’ve never found there to be any animosity between father and daughter. If there had been, it would have been in the woman’s diary.’

  ‘And the other woman?’

  ‘Christine Devon. If we solve one, we solve the other.’

  ‘And her son, is there a tie-in?’

  ‘We don’t think so. Her son was playing with the big boys; he was running the risk of an early death. His mother must have known that.’

  ‘It must be difficult to deal with,’ Goddard said. Isaac could see that the man was happy to sit and talk.

  ‘I remember when Joe Brown became involved with a gang.’

  ‘Joe Brown?’

  ‘Rasta Joe.’

  Bridget came into the office and gave the two men coffee. Goddard exchanged pleasantries with her; she appreciated his interest in what she was involved with, and how her day was.

  ‘As you were saying,’ Goddard said.

  ‘Rasta Joe, he was a good student, good friend, but then the ganja and the lifestyle took over. He enjoyed the life. For a while, his parents tried to bring him back, but it wasn’t possible.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘They’ve both passed on. Just as well, really. A murdered son would have been hard for them, and his mother was a sensitive woman.’

  ‘The father?’

  ‘Stern, but fair. Rasta Joe was close to both of them, but after he had left school and joined with a gang on a full-time basis, they went back home toJamaica.’

  ‘They couldn’t stand to see what their son had become?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It must be the same with Brice. His daughter’s into drugs and men. And then, she’s not doing much. Brice, you’d have to admit, is a man with a lot of energy, a lot of drive. I listened to him this morning as he was laying into us. Full of fire and brimstone.’

  ‘But why? We’ve kept the man informed.’

  ‘Who knows? He’s a complex man; you can’t rule him out as a potential murderer.’

  ‘He’s not the murderer. It needed an agile person. Brice moves slowly, limps on one leg.’

  ‘He could be the organiser.’

  ***

  Charisa Devon was doing fine; she had exams coming up, and Troy, the boyfriend, was back from America. With no sign of Negril Bob, there was the inevitable easing of the security surrounding her.

  The Homicide department had been gravely concerned about her for a few days after the raid on the house in Wellington Street, and an assumption that Negril Bob would try to grab her. As he hadn’t, and his whereabouts were unknown, even on the street, Charisa had gone back to her regular routine of walking between Troy’s place, hers now as well, and the college. Troy would sometimes drive her, but most days she enjoyed the relative solitude of walking down the streets, looking in the shop windows, generally minding her own business.

  Billy, her brother, not having given the money that he had stolen to Negril Bob, had repaid Phillip Loeb in person when they met for the second time. As the acting manager of the shop that he had stolen from, he was enthusiastic and rushing from here to there, moving the stock around, making special offers, enticing the customers to buy. Before his descent into hell, he had been enthusiastic, but the shop had only been a means to an end; now, having risen from purgatory, he could see a future in running a store of his own.

  Troy had plans for him and Charisa; Billy had plans for his future. The anguish over the deaths of their mother and their brother was lessening with each passing day, although Charisa continued to visit the cemetery every other day to stand over their graves and to say a few words.

  As Billy was working in the shop, a man he had not seen before came in. The man, in his forties, was black, spoke in the familiar lingo of the home country, and was well-dressed in a pair of jeans and a white shirt, with a large medallion suspended by a gold chain around his neck. On his fingers were rings, large and expensive.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a good number here,’ the man said. Billy studied the face, did not recognise him.

  ‘We have the best prices in the area. What are you interested in?’

  ‘I’m interested in you, Billy. You still owe us money.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m not important. How much was it before? Twenty-two thousand, plus a thousand a day. How is your sister, she’s a pretty little thing? I wouldn’t mind her myself.’

  Billy knew that the man was dangerous. He was frightened, and he could not tell the man to leave the shop. If he refused to talk to him, or if he phoned the police, then the consequences were too frightening to imagine.

  ‘I don’t have the money,’ Billy said.

  ‘You do, and plenty more.’

  ‘Not the shop.’

  ‘There’s to be a burglary this weekend.’

  ‘This place is alarmed; the police will be here in minutes.’

  ‘That’s why we want you to immobilise the alarms when we tell you.’

  ‘Are you with Negril Bob?’

  ‘What does it matter who I’m with? You will do what you are told, or we’ll take your sister. She’ll be turning tricks for one hundred pounds a time within a week.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘I’m your new best friend if you want your sister to be left alone.’

  ‘Have you harmed her?’

  ‘Not yet, but we will.’

  ‘I’ll get you the money, the twenty-two thousand pounds.’

  ‘What about the interest?’

  ‘Very well, whatever you want, but please leave Charisa alone.’

  ‘Until after we empty this place.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘You can get a job in another shop, case it out, ingratiate yourself, and then immobilise the alarm.’

  ‘This one time if you leave Charisa alone.’

  ‘And miss her company? Her safety is in your hands, Billy Boy, you make the decision.’

>   ‘Okay, you’ve got me.’

  ‘And don’t tell the police. We will phone you in the next few days.’

  The man sauntered out of the shop. Billy phoned his sister.

  Chapter 17

  Isaac met with Jeremy Brice. ‘You’re not getting anywhere on this,’ Brice said. The two men were seated in a restaurant, not far from the radio station where he had made his scurrilous comments about the police investigation into the death of his daughter.

  Isaac did not like the location, not because it was expensive, although Brice had said he was paying, but because every other person in the restaurant felt the need to stop by and say hello to the celebrity. Isaac was glad he was unknown. There had been a few times, as a result of a televised press conference, where he had been recognised for a few days afterwards. The first time it had happened, he had enjoyed the experience, but with Brice it was constant. ‘Do you enjoy all that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Not really, but it comes with the job.’

  After a suitable interval, when both men had ordered, and the constant beeline to the table by the other patrons had diminished, the two men talked. ‘You were hard on us the other day,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Is that why you’re here? To calm me down?’

  ‘Not at all. I wanted to lay out the facts. It may bring another insight into the investigation.’

  ‘Commissioner Davies?’

  ‘I’ve not heard from him.’

  ‘Nor have I. I gave him a hard time when he phoned in that last time.’

  ‘I heard a recording,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What did you reckon?’

  ‘You were tough.’

  ‘Davies wouldn’t have liked it.’

  ‘I suppose he wouldn’t but he’s not running the investigation, I am.’

  ‘You don’t like the man?’ Brice said.

  ‘He’s the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police. It’s not for me to either like or dislike him.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘On one occasion.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘He put across his point of view. It was an open and frank discussion.’

  ‘DCI Cook, I know what open and frank means.’