Goddard had not answered Isaac’s ‘How long?’. Not because he had not heard him, but because he did not know. The demise of the Met’s commissioner was not a simple process, and dependent on circumstances, he could last two weeks or two years. There’d be a reluctance to remove him without due process, which meant that Davies would need to agree to a face-saving exercise whereby he resigned or retired with the necessary fanfare, the accolades, even an acknowledgement in the Houses of Parliament. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the daggers would have been drawn, the financial package agreed. There’d be those who would argue for no action, and that the man should be allowed to serve for another four years until his current contract was due for re-evaluation, but to Isaac, that was sheer madness. Whatever happened, there’d be no public flaying of Commissioner Alwyn Davies – undermining the public’s confidence in the office of the commissioner would serve no useful purpose.
Appointing Seth Caddick as Richard Goddard’s replacement at Challis Street would only speed Davies’s departure, or Isaac hoped it would, and then there he was, Superintendent Caddick in the doorway to Homicide. ‘Has Goddard gone?’ he said.
Isaac looked over at the man; he could see that his time sidelined back at his old police station had not mellowed the man, and now he was their superintendent. The thought of it scared Isaac.
‘Good to see you. Welcome back,’ Isaac said.
‘A word in your office,’ Caddick said. He made the rounds of the office, shaking everyone’s hand, making the usual comments about how he would get himself settled before he made changes, and so on.
Inside Isaac’s office, the door closed, the two adversaries sat down. ‘DCI, let’s be blunt here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac said.
‘You’re Goddard’s man. I don’t blame you, but I’m here now. There’ll be no telling him what’s going on. I’m in charge now, and I expect total loyalty. Do I make myself clear?’
‘That is abundantly clear.’
‘And I’ll not accept insubordination either. That comment was getting too close to the bone for me.’
‘It was not intended.’
‘You do not approve of me, and you certainly do not like me, but I’m the superintendent, you’re not. You get on with your job, I’ll get on with mine.’
‘We are involved in several murders. Will you allow me to continue investigating without your involvement?’
‘I’ve seen your investigating, and believe me I was not impressed. You’ve got four murders, and only one of those is possibly solved.’
‘You’ve been reading the reports?’
‘What did you expect me to do? To walk in here like a dummy. I know all about your cases, and how long it takes to solve them. From now on, I’ll be keeping an eagle eye on this department, and if I see any incompetence, I’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks. You may have been Goddard’s pride and joy, you’re not mine. Respect is earned, not given, and I’ve not seen proof that you deserve mine.’
‘I appreciate your frankness,’ Isaac said.
‘I intend to ride you and this department. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘And a daily report.’
‘That’s what we always do.’
‘Good. I’ll leave it to you while I go upstairs and sort out my office.’
Superintendent Seth Caddick left Isaac’s office. Isaac sat back and put his hands behind his head in a sign of exasperation.
‘What’s up, guv?’ Larry asked as he came in through the door. He was holding two cups of coffee, one for him, one for Isaac. ‘You look as if you need a drink.’
‘After that, thanks.’
‘Difficult?’
‘What did you expect?’
‘It’s going to be hard calling him “sir”,’ Larry said.
‘You know the deal. No matter how difficult the man becomes, we don’t attempt to destabilise him. And never give him cause to remove us from our positions.’
‘He’s got the authority.’
‘Maybe he has, but he’ll need to replace me first, and that’s not so easy.’
‘Why?’
‘Our superintendent is the poisoned chalice. No one wants to sully their career by cosying up to him.’
‘There are some, sir,’ Larry said.
Chapter 20
The death of a homeless man on the street would not usually raise a comment. The weather had been unseasonably cold, and those who slept rough invariably succumbed if they were weak or aged.
Gordon Windsor had been on the scene within two hours of the body being found under a bridge. ‘Dead by natural causes,’ he said. ‘Which doesn’t help you, does it?’
‘Not at all. He was our witness to Rasta Joe’s killing.’
‘Would he have had credibility?’
‘Not a lot, but with the confessions of two of Negril Bob’s gang, we’d have secured a conviction.’
‘And now?’
‘If those in custody change their story, we’ve got problems. Are you sure of the natural causes?’
‘There’s no sign of violence. Although it wouldn’t have taken much to suffocate him.’
‘That means our case against Negril Bob will go against us.’
‘I can only report the facts,’ Windsor said.
Isaac left the scene, despondent. In the past, he would have informed Richard Goddard of the latest developments, but now there was another man in charge. Isaac wasn’t sure how to proceed. If he did not tell Caddick, and he found out through another channel, then he, as the SIO, would have been negligent in his duty. If, on the other hand, he told the new superintendent, then the man would be on the phone to Commissioner Davies. Isaac could see that he was between a rock and a hard place.
Isaac chose the only option possible. At the far end of the top floor corridor in Challis Street, the sign on the door prominently displayed: Superintendent Caddick. Inside, the man sat at his desk. Isaac saw that the bookcase had been moved, and the desk no longer sat in front of the large window; it was now to one side. ‘What is it, DCI?’ Caddick said.
‘Our primary witness to the murder of Rasta Joe is dead,’ Isaac said. He was standing, no invite to take a seat.
‘Murdered?’
‘The evidence points to the cause of death as being natural.’
‘What does this mean? Caddick asked. Isaac could only reflect as he stood there that behind the desk was a man less experienced than him, less educated, less professional, and now he was answering to him, following his orders if they were given.
‘It means that our case against Negril Bob is substantially weakened.’
‘Does that mean you cannot arrest him now?’ Caddick said. Isaac could see the man enjoying himself.
‘If those two we’ve arrested stick to their story, then we can.’
‘How likely is that?’
‘The word will soon get to them.’
‘In prison?’
‘Someone will have a phone. They probably know already.’
‘So what are you going to do, or do you need me to deal with it?’
‘I came to inform you. We don’t need assistance.’
‘You’ve charged two people with murder, and now you’re telling me the evidence is flimsy. What kind of policing is that?’
‘It’s good policing. Negril Bob is guilty of the murders of Rasta Joe and Samuel Devon.’
‘And you can’t prove either?’
‘There is no evidence for either murder that will hold up.’
‘And there are two other murders. That’s four in total, and you’ve not got a firm conviction against any of them.’
‘That is correct, sir,’ Isaac said. He realised that it grated on his nerves when he had to acknowledge his senior’s status. Once outside Caddick’s office, he phoned Richard Goddard.
‘Three months maximum. That’s all I can give you,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s not possible to put a time against this. There’s not
much I can do here in Public Relations.’
***
Jeremy Brice was not sure why he had agreed to meet George Happold. He knew one thing about the man: he did not like him. He knew it to be mutual from Happold’s side as well.
‘Why are we meeting?’ Brice asked. It was early evening in an upmarket restaurant in Mayfair.
‘I’ve been visited by the police,’ Happold said. The two men had shaken hands on meeting. Brice had asked for financial assistance from him once in the past when he had considered buying the radio station where he broadcast every Tuesday and Thursday. Happold had refused.
The reasons were unclear, but Brice found out the truth in time; the man was advising a rival bid, providing financial support as necessary. In fact, Happold had done him a service in refusing, as the radio station continued to haemorrhage money, not on account of his programme, but because the advertising revenue generated was now being diverted online.
‘Gwen was friends with Amelia, as was Quentin. What did you expect?’ Brice said.
‘What have you told them? The truth?’
‘What they need to know. My daughter’s been murdered. Are you implicated?’
‘Brice, I’ve asked you here to discuss the matter, not to listen to your accusations. What would I gain from her death?’
‘You’re a private man, and Gwen and Amelia would talk. What if Gwen said something untoward, indiscreet? How far would you go to protect your bank, your family name, your peerage?’
‘Not as far as murder, that’s for sure.’
‘Happold, you’ll not convince me. You’re a wolf clothed in sheep’s clothing.’
‘And that’s the way it will stay. Better than being a sheep in wolf’s clothing.’
‘Touché,’ Brice said.
The two men ordered their meal, a vintage red wine to complement it.
‘Amelia was frightened of Quentin,’ Brice said. The two men, dissimilar in many ways, alike in others, clinked their glasses before drinking.
‘Amelia was always dramatic,’ Happold said. ‘Are you sure, or was she exaggerating?’
‘I’ll grant you that she could gild the lily, not like Gwen, straight up and down with her.’
‘Both women had their faults, but I’ll not allow anything to be said about my daughter,’ Happold said.
Brice was aware of Happold’s unswerving belief in his daughter. He knew it to be well-founded. He had always enjoyed Gwen’s company, an articulate and smart woman, whereas Amelia was whimsical and carefree. Their friendship was a consternation to many people, but the two women were as thick as thieves for many years.
‘Nor against mine,’ Brice said. ‘What’s the real reason for our meeting tonight?’
‘I will require your confidence,’ Happold said. He poured himself another glass of wine, topped up Brice’s glass.
‘You have it.’ After so many years of dealing with politicians and his influence with them, Brice had heard many secrets, knew of a few too many indiscretions, whether financial or sexual. Not once had he used that knowledge to his financial advantage, although some would have paid handsomely for his information, and never once had he mentioned anything to a third party, and especially to those who listened and watched him every week on the radio and the television.
‘Good man,’ Happold said. The meal was finished, the plates were taken away. Both men had a glass of port in their hands. ‘I’m an ambitious man, and this ongoing concern over Amelia’s death is affecting the possibility of my peerage.’
‘It may prevent it.’
‘You’ve heard something?’
‘I hear a lot of things, but yes, I’ve heard.’
‘I’m sorry to raise your daughter’s death. It must be difficult for you.’
‘It is, but Amelia was a reflection of her mother. Delightful but fickle, loving but always looking elsewhere. Quentin was the rock in her life. I was the rock in my wife’s life.’
‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘My wife was at home with Amelia, and as she started to grow up, wanting to exercise her independence, my wife started to stray.’
‘Stray?’
‘Other men. And in time she met a younger man. One day I come home, and she’s gone.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘You know the answer. Why are you asking?’
‘It’s your story.’
‘She died overseas in an accident. I went out there with Amelia and brought the body back. We buried her in the local churchyard. It was sad at the time, but we move on. Amelia, unfortunately, was tarred with the same brush. Eventually, her life would have followed the same route: the wrong men, the wrong decisions, the inevitable regrets.’
‘Quentin concerns me,’ Happold said. ‘Was he seeing Amelia?’
‘I don’t know. I had not seen Amelia for some time before she died, maybe six to eight weeks.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Her behaviour was becoming more irrational, and she was messing around with the criminal class.’
‘The gangs?’
‘Some of them. I only knew about it. I never saw any of them.’
‘Who do you believe murdered your daughter?’ Happold asked.
‘You know the answer.’
‘Gwen?’
‘Not her personally, but she’s a strong woman, a woman who doesn’t like to lose.’
‘That’s what I worry about,’ Happold said.
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’
‘No. She would only deny it.’
‘And Quentin?’
‘He has disappointed me.’
‘Competent to take over the bank?’
‘Competent to run it. Gwen will always be the controlling partner. Men such as Quentin can never be trusted totally.’
‘Why are we here?’ Brice asked.
‘I need to protect Gwen and Quentin.’
‘Then why ask me? I only want the murderer of my daughter to be found.’
‘What do you have hidden? What dark secrets are there that could be revealed?’
‘Are you accusing me of having my own daughter murdered?’ Brice replied. He was indignant and insulted.
‘Let’s be honest, Brice. You’re a man who has risen to the top by treading on other people’s toes, committing the occasional misdemeanour, even turning a blind eye when it was necessary.’
‘Both of us are equally guilty of some things we are not proud of.’
‘Not me,’ Happold said. ‘There is nothing that I have done or would do that would cause me any sleepless nights.’
‘Including murder?’
‘If it was for my family.’
‘Did you kill Amelia because she had something on Gwen, or because she was involved with Quentin?’
‘Not Amelia. I am only giving you a generalisation as to the extent men like ourselves will go to achieve our aims.’
‘That would also extend to Gwen and Quentin.’
‘Precisely. I will do whatever is necessary to protect my daughter and her life,’ Happold said.
‘You’d protect her and Quentin even if they were guilty of murder?’
‘I would prefer them not to be involved, but if they are, believe me, I will do what I must.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘It’s not a threat; just a notification of intent.’
‘Then let me tell you. If either of those two killed my daughter, I'd pursue them through the police, and if they fail to act, then I will deal with it myself.’
‘That sounds like a threat to me,’ Happold said. ‘I believe we have made our positions clear. Let us hope that my daughter and her husband are innocent.’
‘And if they are not?’
‘I will do whatever is necessary.’
‘Including having me killed?’
‘I have made my position clear,’ Happold said.
‘Crystal clear,’ Brice replied.
***
Negril Bob’s return to the area was not welcomed by some people, least of all the team in Challis Street Homicide. As expected, once his two incarcerated gang members had heard that the only witness to the murder of Rasta Joe had died, they had changed their tune and denied their involvement, and with the poor quality finger and shoe, the case against them was unsustainable. As for the knife wounds, no knife had been found.
A brash individual, Negril Bob’s first act had been to march into the Westbourne pub to announce that he was back.
Larry Hill was out in the area testing the mood on the return of the violent gang leader. Not only was there a general level of fear, but there was also the need for revenge. Rasta Joe had had a gang, and with them, it was tit for tat, kill one of ours, we’ll kill one of yours.
Isaac could see the odds increasing in favour of the gang war that had not yet eventuated. Society would not miss any that would die, but if it was intense, then the chance of it spilling into the general populace was possible.
‘Another stuff-up,’ Caddick said when he had hauled Isaac up to his office. ‘What is it with you and your department? Can’t you get anything right?’
Isaac wanted to say that he had solved more murders than his superior, his track record was unblemished, and to just back off and leave him to it. But he did not. He had the measure of Caddick, a man who rode his staff hard but did not remove them until just before the case came to a conclusion, so he could take all the credit.
‘It’s a setback,’ Isaac said.
‘It’s a stuff-up. Goddard may have gone easy on you. I’ve no intention of doing so. I’ll need regular updates, a list of the day's activities, and a reason why if any were not completed, and those that you did, what was achieved.’
Isaac had heard it all before, straight out of the mouth of Commissioner Davies. Caddick should have still been a sergeant, possibly a junior inspector, but the man was already a superintendent. It had only been a few years since Isaac had seen the possibility of becoming the commissioner of the Met, but his approach was through competency, not through sycophancy.
‘We’ve four murders, one suspicious death; I don’t have time for what you want,’ Isaac said.
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