DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Shirley O’Rourke, but she’s in jail, pending a trial for insurance fraud.’

  ‘Is she a woman who’d have her ear to the ground?’

  ‘I’d say so. Not that she’s been involved with the gangs, but she’d know who they were.’

  ‘Tomorrow, you and I will meet with her.’

  ‘Great, now can I get back to bed?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Sleep tight. I’ll go and talk to our DCI.’

  ***

  Larry could see an increasingly frustrated man in Isaac’s office. He went and organised a cup of coffee for him. ‘Here you are, guv,’ he said as he placed it on Isaac’s desk. It was way past midnight, the clock in the corner of the office clearly visible.

  Outside in the street, it was quiet apart from the occasional car, a couple of drunks arguing.

  ‘I’ve nearly finished. What were you saying before?’ Isaac said. ‘Just let me send this report to the man.’

  ‘He’s hardly likely to read it tonight.’

  ‘Whether he does or not is not my concern. I’ve followed instructions, that’s all. Most of it is padding anyway. He’s flexing his muscle, aiming to see how far I’ll bend before I react.’

  ‘How far will that be?’

  ‘I’m not there yet.’

  ‘You were busy before, so I didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Mention what?’

  ‘I’ve met Negril Bob.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the pub. I was there at the same time.’

  ‘Did you follow him?’

  ‘I saw him going in. It’s a public place.’

  ‘On your own, that’s dangerous.’

  ‘There was no one else that I could have called to join me, you know that.’

  ‘Certainly not me. I’m known in the area. There are some there who dislike me more than you.’

  ‘I know that, and Negril Bob knew you by name.’

  ‘What did he say about me?’

  ‘Just to let you know that he did not appreciate you or anyone else prying into his business.’

  ‘Threatening?’

  ‘Intimidating. It was a busy place, although I was careful when I left.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have followed him in. It was reckless.’

  ‘It was necessary. I needed to get the measure of the man.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Smart, careful in what he says. There was no mention of overt violence, only implied.’

  ***

  George Happold paced in his office. The situation with his son-in-law was intolerable. Now the man was accusing his daughter of being involved in Amelia Brice’s death.

  Happold, someone who had always been careful in what he said, did not understand Quentin Waverley. The man had only needed to wait for another few years, and he’d be in effective control of the bank. Now his chances were looking slim.

  Discretion and a careful manner were what was required when you were dealing with billions of pounds. The bank could not be entrusted to a man who openly accused his wife of murder, had been carrying on an affair with his ex-lover, and showed a tendency to uncontrolled anger where the tongue moved faster than the brain. Happold knew he could not continue forever; he was seventy-eight and feeling it, and the mind, once so sharp, was starting to wander. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.

  He made a phone call. ‘Quentin, my office in five minutes.’

  Six minutes later, Happold’s personal assistant, a woman in her sixties who had been with him for nearly forty years, showed Waverley in.

  ‘Yes, George. You wanted to see me,’ Waverley said. He could see that the man facing him was not in a good mood. He remembered when he had first moved in with Gwen, Happold’s daughter. The man had been stand-offish, almost dismissive of his daughter’s choice. Waverley recalled the grilling he had received the next day, the checks into his background. Happold had even paid for private investigators to check him out; they had found out about the girl he had got pregnant in school, the miscarriage, the consternation of his parents, the anger of hers.

  The investigators had also found out about other romances, the dangerous driving, even his alcohol and drug intake in his youth. Quentin had mentioned it to Gwen at the time, her only comment was, ‘Don’t worry. He’s my father, he cares about me, and besides, he’s checking you out, see if you’ll stand up to the governance required of the bank. Don’t worry, you’ll pass. I’ll make sure of that.’

  And then Happold was shaking his hand. ‘There are some skeletons there, but you were only young. Just remember, you’re joining the Happold family. We play by a different set of rules, and whatever happens, whenever one of us strays, we look after each other, and if you ever upset my daughter, then be prepared.’

  At the time, Waverley had dismissed it as the standard speech of a father about to pass over his daughter to another man, but now, standing in front of Happold, he was not so sure.

  ‘Gwen’s upset, and if she is, so am I,’ Happold said.

  ‘She’s pregnant, emotional.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but you’ve not been staying on the line. Some of your decisions in this bank have been less than satisfactory.’

  ‘I’ve not heard any complaints.’

  ‘You are now.’

  ‘Is this because of Gwen? Are you aiming to sideline me?’

  ‘Quentin, you’re a Happold now. We look after our own. I will not sideline you, nor will I remove you from your position as the chairman-presumptive of this bank. But just remember, if it’s a decision between you and Gwen, it will always be her. She’s blood, you’re not.’

  Waverley could see what the old man was saying: he was serving notice. Quentin Waverley, an astute man, had seen the benefit of transferring his affections to Gwen from Amelia, even though he had preferred Brice’s daughter. And Jeremy, her father, was an educated man with a biting tongue but retained the willingness to enjoy himself, to have a drink, even a joke. With George Happold, there was no biting tongue, no enjoyment, and no humour.

  To Waverley, Happold was a killjoy, and the man’s only pleasure was in seeing the bank’s financial statements. He couldn’t see him staying retired for too long. Away from the bank, the man would sit in his library at home, a seventeenth-century mansion, reading books on finance, nothing else. He certainly didn’t go fishing or play golf, regarding both of those as pursuits of the idle mind. And now the man was giving him a lecture.

  As Waverley stood there listening to the father, he could see no way out, and he knew that in the future, once he was the chairman and his wife had the controlling stake, it would be her giving him the third degree. Waverley knew he could not tolerate the situation. Back in his office, he considered the possibilities.

  Chapter 23

  Larry Hill sensed it at a café in Portobello Road. It was the day after his encounter with Negril Bob. Before everyone had been civil, whether they were honest or not, but now there was a tension in the air. It was still early, and he had managed to avoid the wrath of his wife the night before, the few hours in the office with Isaac had dealt with that problem.

  ‘The usual?’ the waitress asked although it was not necessary. There was always just the one reason for him entering the café and taking a seat close to the window; it was the full English breakfast, the tomatoes, the bacon, the two eggs, the toast, and then a pot of tea.

  ‘Why not?’ Larry said to the woman. ‘It’s quiet in here,’ even though eight people were sitting at the other tables.

  The woman bent low, low enough for Larry to smell her perfume. ‘The word’s out.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘You’re closing in on Negril Bob. Nobody wants to be too close, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case of what?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Maybe it’s because it’s early or I’m slow on the uptake. What is it with me?’

  ‘Negril Bob’s put out the word that anyone who assists the police will be o
n the wrong side of him.’

  ‘And people are frightened of him?’

  ‘Around here they are.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘The man kills for pleasure, what do you think?’

  ‘But you’re talking to me.’

  ‘I’m serving you breakfast,’ the waitress said. Larry looked at her as she walked away. He picked up his phone and called Isaac.

  ‘We’ll not get much out of anyone around here, at least, not for a few days,’ Larry said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Isaac replied.

  ‘The people are frightened of Negril Bob.’

  ‘What kind of leverage does he have over these people?’

  ‘’Fear is a powerful lever. We know that he killed Rasta Joe because he talked to me; these people must know this, as well.’

  ‘If they do, maybe there’s further proof.’’

  ‘We only had the one witness.’

  ‘There may be others, but they’ll not talk either. How do we move forward?’

  ‘We can’t. If this is the mood where I am, then those who might have spoken to me are going to be tight-lipped.’

  ***

  Charisa Devon could not agree with her brother. He was convinced that their only protection was for him to acquiesce to the threats and to give Negril Bob what he wanted. He had been angry when Isaac Cook had phoned him up in the shop, angrier when he heard that his sister had refused to leave the area.

  ‘You’ll not understand,’ Charisa said. ‘No qualifications and I can’t go to America with Troy.’

  ‘And what will you be over there – the black wife of a white man? They’re racist, you know.’

  It was the first time that Charisa had heard her brother talk that way. It was if he was starting to believe the gangs’ distorted view of life.

  Charisa knew that she had never felt that. Sure, there was the occasional abuse, but she was educated, she could handle herself, whereas Billy was not. She worried about him, so much so that she considered not going with Troy to America. But she knew that she was not a nursemaid.

  ‘Billy, you can’t stay here. You must leave the area,’ Charisa said.

  ‘These are my people.’

  ‘No, they’re not; they’re criminals.’

  ‘It is only a result of the system, the prejudice in society.’

  ‘Why this change?’

  ‘I’ve been speaking to my friends. They’re doing well, got a good set of wheels.’

  ‘And no doubt a few women dangling after them.’

  ‘And why not? Why should I work in a shop for minimum wage when I can make a bundle out there?’

  ‘They killed Samuel, don’t you remember? Your friends may be fine now, but they could be dead tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t forget, but Samuel, he was a child.’

  ‘And what are you? At nineteen, you’re a man, is that it? An education, that’s the answer.’

  ‘You sound like our mother.’

  ‘That’s what I am now to you. You’re supposed to be the man of the house, even though it’s only the two of us, but you’re acting like the child. Stand up and be counted.’

  Charisa realised the conversation was going nowhere. She changed tack. ‘They want their money within a few days, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I will make a deal with them to protect you,’ Billy said.

  Charisa knew that Billy loved her, the way she loved him. Even if his actions were dishonourable, his intent was not. She knew she had to protect him from his own folly. She ended the phone conversation and made another phone call. ‘It’s Billy,’ she said.

  ‘What about him?’ Isaac said. Charisa knew that her approach had an element of risk. If Billy committed an illegal activity, or if he did in the future, she was giving the police early notice of her brother’s decline from decency to dishonesty.

  ‘He’s planning to do something wrong,’ Charisa said. She was waiting to enter the exam room, and her mind was not focussing. She knew that it would be a disaster to take the exam and a failure would mean a wait of six months before she could sit for it again.

  ‘I thought he was not going to,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I’m not sure if he believes in what they do, or whether he's trying to protect me.’

  ‘Assuming he is, what can he do? It’s forty-six thousand pounds this time. There’s no way he’ll be able to get that sort of money out of the shop and sold on the street.’

  ‘Maybe you can talk to him?’

  ‘I’ll bring him in, subject him to the third degree. And you’ve got to disappear, exam or no exam.’

  ‘I’ll phone Troy. He’ll have to understand.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘Yes, I know he will. I can’t leave England while Billy is wavering. He’s all I’ve got left after Mum and Samuel died.’

  ‘When will you disappear?’

  ‘I need to go home, collect some clothes. Later today.’

  ‘It needs to be now. I’ll send over Sergeant Gladstone to your college. She’ll stay with you until you’re safe,’ Isaac said. Wendy had been listening to the conversation; she nodded her head.

  ‘Tell her ten minutes,’ Wendy said.

  ***

  Larry had spent a day working his contacts, seeing if there was any further evidence that could link Negril Bob and his gang to three deaths, those of Samuel Devon, Rasta Joe, and a homeless man. It was dark, and he still had one more possibility. The homeless man had a friend who went by the name of Dave. The man had not been seen for a few days, though there was nothing unusual in that as he was also homeless, and he moved around the area, sometimes sleeping here, sometimes there. He had heard from another homeless man that Dave could be found around the back of a local hardware store, sleeping in the back entrance doorway.

  Larry parked his car at the end of the street. The rain had started to fall, and it was miserable. He would just talk to this man, find out what he had to say, and then be off home. His wife, by way of a treat for him losing weight, had promised to make him a good meal for once, steak and kidney pie, followed by apple crumble and an early night.

  Up ahead, Larry could see a man huddled in a doorway. ‘Dave?’ Larry said.

  ‘What do you want? This is my place so you can bugger off.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill, Challis Street Police Station.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I know that. I’ve a few questions for you, nothing more.’

  ‘You don’t have a bottle of something, do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, although I could give you some money if you want.’

  ‘Fifty pounds.’

  ‘Fair enough. You had a friend, he was a witness to someone dying.’

  ‘Where is my money?’

  Larry pulled out his wallet, removed the fifty pounds and gave it to the man, standing to one side to avoid the smell.

  ‘He told me about it,’ Dave said.

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘I don’t get involved, it’s safer that way.’

  ‘Are you saying you were there, or you weren’t?’

  ‘I mind my own business. They killed him, you know?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gappy, my friend, the one you’re referring to.’

  ‘Why Gappy?’

  ‘He had no teeth, not at the front anyway.’

  Dave, were you there when they beat the man to death?’

  ‘I need another fifty pounds. I need to buy myself some food.’

  Larry complied, opening his wallet. The homeless man took the money and stuffed it inside the old coat that he wore. Larry knew that it was not food that Dave would be buying.

  ‘I was there, but no one saw me, and Gappy, he knew I’d not say anything.’

  ‘You are now.’

  ‘Here, not in your police station, and not in any court.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I spent time in prison, long time ago. I don’t intend to go back.�
�

  ‘You’re a witness, not a criminal. That won’t happen.’

  ‘It did last time.’

  Larry realised that the man was probably confused, and an unreliable witness. ‘Did you hear any names mentioned?’

  ‘Only Rasta Joe and Negril Bob.’

  ‘Rasta Joe was the man who was killed.’

  ‘I know that. I’m not stupid. It was Negril Bob who was hitting him.’

  ‘How do you know this. Gappy said it was dark and he only heard voices.’

  ‘His eyesight wasn’t so good. It was Negril Bob; I know him well enough.’

  ‘Will you testify against him?’

  ‘Not a chance. I’ve told you what happened, but don’t take me down to your police station.’

  ‘If I do, you’ll change your story.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Larry knew that Dave would not stand up in court to testify and that the defence would devalue his testimony, even if he gave it, as the man was a homeless alcoholic.

  Larry left the man and walked back down the street. As he approached his car, a heavy object hit him in the back; he collapsed to the ground, a bag placed over his head. He remembered little after that, other than men hitting him in the chest as he was pinned up against a wall, the fists to his face, the sound and the weight of a baseball bat or similar slamming into his legs, causing him to collapse. Barely conscious once the beating had ceased, he removed the bag from his head. He picked up his phone; it was smashed. With no more energy he propped himself up against the side of his car.

  Isaac first heard of the attack when he received a phone call from the hospital. He went straight over there; it was eleven in the evening. At the hospital, Larry’s wife waited. ‘He’s going to be alright,’ she said. Isaac could see the worry on her face.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘He’s in a bad way; no broken bones, thankfully.’

  A doctor entered the room where Larry was lying, semi-conscious and sedated. ‘He’ll pull through,’ he said. ‘We’ve taken x-rays.’

  A uniformed officer stood outside the treatment room. Isaac left Larry’s wife with her husband and went to speak to him.

  ‘A brief report,’ Isaac said.