‘Who?’
‘The homeless man up from where you were found.’
‘Dave. He was there when they killed Rasta Joe,’ Larry said.
‘Morris Beckford told us. He’s back in the cells; we’re about to interview Negril Bob.’
‘I wish I was there.’
‘Not this time. What’s the doctor saying?’
‘My wife’s scowling at me, but she understands. I’ll be in the office in two days, light duties only.’
‘Hopefully, we’ll have sewn up Rasta Joe’s death by then.’
‘Samuel Devon?’
‘Beckford’s not admitting to his murder. Mind you, the man’s not too bright. He could change his story at any time. His defence will use the man’s low intellect as a defence.’
Wendy took the opportunity to go across the road and bring back some sandwiches. After she and Isaac had eaten, they reentered the interview room. Negril Bob was waiting. He was using the same lawyer as Beckford.
‘Robert Gosling, also known as Negril Bob. Is that correct?’ Isaac asked.
‘That’s correct,’ Negril Bob said. He had a scowl on his face. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong. If Beckford and Roots have done something stupid, then it’s not my problem.’
‘We cannot prove that you were present when Dallimore was killed or when DI Hill was severely beaten.’
‘Then why am I here?’
‘Morris Beckford and Marcus Roots are colleagues of yours, is that true?’
‘You know it is. We’re friends if you like. Beckford’s not too bright, but Roots is okay.’
‘You’re obviously smarter.’
‘Galbraith, you’re the lawyer, get me out of here.’
‘I suggest you stay for the time being,’ Galbraith said.
‘Mr Gosling.’
‘Everyone calls me Negril Bob.’
‘Morris Beckford spoke to you by phone. Beckford tried to pass the knifing of the man onto Marcus Roots, but we know that not to be true. Beckford acted on instructions, your instructions. Is that correct?’
‘Not me. If Beckford killed him, then he’s to blame. Don’t try to smart-arse me into a confession. I’m guilty of no more than being a hard case.’
‘And if Marcus Roots corroborates Beckford’s story?’
‘You’re putting words into my client’s mouth,’ the lawyer said. ‘May I remind you that in English justice, a person is innocent until proven otherwise.’
‘I’m aware of the law,’ Isaac said. Wendy sat to one side, not sure what to say.
Isaac knew that the connection between the death of Dave Dallimore and Negril Bob was tenuous. He had not been at the murder scene; he had never met the murdered man, and the phone number that Beckford had phoned for advice was no longer operating.
‘We will have a corroborating statement from Marcus Roots.’
‘Two men, guilty of murder, wanting to strike a deal with the police for a lighter sentence. Galbraith will destroy their evidence against me.’
‘DCI Cook,’ Galbraith said, ‘your evidence against my client is circumstantial.’
Isaac knew that it was. So far, all of it was hearsay, and there was no connection between Negril Bob and Samuel Devon, only the word of Rasta Joe that there was. The only charges against him were minor, and if he were charged, then he’d be granted bail. Isaac chose to leave the man free, knowing that his luck would eventually run out, and his support base was weakening.
Negril Bob walked out of the police station later in the evening. He looked back at Isaac as he left, and smiled. Isaac knew that to him it was personal. He phoned up Ann, Phillip Loeb’s PA. It would have to be another weekend before they met.
Chapter 25
Five days after Negril Bob walked out of Challis Street Police Station, three things happened: Gwen Waverley gave birth to a son, Larry Hill reported for duty, and George Happold died.
Another child for the Waverleys further cemented Quentin’s position within the Happold bank, and he knew it. It came with some regrets, namely that Amelia was not there, even though she had become difficult, threatening to disrupt his plans. He had spoken to her about it on several occasions, tried to convince her to wait and to lay off the men and the drugs. The last two times that he had seen her, it had been a case of ‘you do what I say or else’, although he had never known what the ‘else’ was.
Each and every time that he had seen her, he had wanted to sleep with her, but he had resisted, even if she had been willing. He was not the paragon of virtue that he pretended to be with Gwen’s father, a man who would send you to the poor house without compunction, yet set high standards for his family, even for him, the son-in-law. Quentin Waverley knew one thing: he had hated the man, but now the man was dead and he was running the bank. The compromises were acceptable, and if that meant Gwen, then he would not complain. The side benefits, the occasional dalliance, the obligatory mistress as befitted a man of status, would suffice.
Larry, the effects of the savage beating still feeling sore in places, walked into the police station. It had been longer than the two days he had initially said. He received a hug from Wendy which hurt, another from Bridget which hurt even more, and a firm handshake from Isaac. ‘Our man is still here?’ Larry said.
‘He’s not that easy to shift,’ Isaac replied. ‘He’ll outlast me at this rate. We’ve got no one in custody for four of the five murders.’
‘It’s not our fault. If there’s no evidence, what can we do?’
‘Are you up to winding up the heat?’
‘I’m ready. Mind you, I don’t think I want to get involved in any violence for a while.’
‘Your wife?’
‘She’s worried. I can’t blame her. I could have ended up dead.’
‘Why didn’t they kill you? It didn’t seem logical to leave you alive.’
‘The two you arrested, they’re not very bright. They follow instructions.’
‘Are you saying that Negril Bob told them to leave you alive?’
‘Why not? He knew what would happen if a police officer was killed in the line of duty.’
The news of George Happold’s death became public later in the day. According to reports, he had visited his daughter and his new grandchild in the hospital in the morning, and then, as he was leaving, he had collapsed with a heart attack, and had died not more than fifty feet from where his daughter had given birth.
Isaac and Larry made their way over to the hospital on receiving the news. Outside were two reporters that neither of the men wanted to talk to. George Happold was an influential man; his death was newsworthy, not the same as a celebrity, but he would get a mention on the news broadcasts for that day.
Quentin Waverley was inside. Isaac and Larry spoke to him, offered their condolences, their congratulations when told about the birth. ‘A brilliant man,’ Waverley said.
‘You weren’t fond of him,’ Isaac said.
‘I could admire him.’
‘Your wife?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘And what now for you?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ll take over the bank.’
‘A day of change.’
‘As you say.’
Isaac and Larry realised that there was no more to be gained at the hospital. George Happold was elderly and not in good health. His death was not suspicious, although its timing was unexpected.
Back at Challis Street, Caddick was on the warpath. Isaac could see him as he entered the building. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to phone you,’ he said.
‘My phone is never switched off. George Happold died.’
‘Who?’
Isaac could see that Caddick had not been reading his reports.
‘The merchant banker, the father of Amelia Brice’s former friend, the father-in-law of her former lover.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘What did you want me for?’ Isaac said once Larry had moved away.
‘Commissioner
Davies wants these murders wrapped up.’
‘So do we,’ Isaac said.
‘You’re taking too long. He wants me to become involved.’
‘I’m the SIO, not you,’ Isaac said before remembering what DCS Goddard had said about riling the man.’
‘I’ll need twice-daily reports, that’s all. I don’t intend to come down here and do your job for you.’
Isaac left the man and walked up to Homicide. He was still shaking his head in disbelief. He thought to phone Richard Goddard but decided against it. Davies was either raising the heat through his lackey to protect his position, or it was a further effort to bring his man into Homicide. Neither made any difference as to how Isaac would handle the case.
***
Jeremy Brice was in a good mood that day. George Happold had died, and his secret was safe. The secret that he had slept with Gwen before she had married Quentin; the secret that Happold would not forgive. Gwen had regretted sleeping with Amelia’s father, she had often said that to him since then, but she had been drunk, so had he, but Amelia was not in the house, and one thing led to another.
Amelia knew the truth, so did Quentin, but neither of them was concerned at the time. Amelia was with Quentin, and Gwen was a free agent. Brice remembered that Amelia had teased him about it, not that he appreciated it. Sober, he had felt guilty, but not enough for him to stop sleeping with Gwen on an infrequent basis. And now, with Happold’s death, the truth would never be revealed, and if it was, then so what. An older man with a younger woman did not have the negative connotations of earlier generations, and there had been no coercion by either party, just the occasional coupling when the house was quiet.
It had not concerned Gwen, although her father, a man who had no issues when it was a tactical seduction, would not have understood why she had chosen Jeremy Brice. Gwen would have told her father that it was because she liked him and she needed a man.
***
Negril Bob’s reputation had only been singed by the police, not burnt entirely, but those who had shown him respect, even bought him pints of beer in the pub, were holding back. He had phoned one of the women who would generally come round, but she was busy; he knew she wasn’t.
He looked out of the window of his car as he drove past the college and there she was. He knew there would be trouble, but what did it matter? In two days time, he would board a flight to Jamaica, but till then, he would enjoy himself.
He waited for Charisa to walk around the block from the college, using a shortcut down an alley that she often took on her way back to Troy’s. Negril Bob came up from behind her, covered her mouth with a scarf and tied it, then bundled her into the boot of the car and drove off. After five minutes, he stopped in an isolated area and released her from the confined space, only to tie her hands and feet. Charisa was in fear for her life. ‘Don’t worry,’ Negril Bob said. ‘I’ll not harm you.’
He then set off again, having first made sure that Charisa was restrained in the back seat of the car. He drove to a small house outside London that he had rented for a couple of days. Charisa was led into the house and placed in a comfy chair. Negril Bob, a man who had killed in the past, inflicted torture, even occasionally raped a woman when he had been fighting for his country, felt no remorse.
Billy, Charisa’s brother, had not followed orders. He had known the penalty for disobedience, and now he would pay. Charisa focussed on her surroundings. ‘Where am I?’ she said.
‘You’re in the country with me.’
‘But why? What have I done to you?’
‘Nothing yet. You knew the penalty, yet you and your brother chose to ignore me.’
‘I will not let you touch me,’ Charisa said.
‘Do you think I care? If your brother does not pay me, then I’ll take my payment another way.’
‘It is wrong what you’re doing.’
‘So is murder, but I have done that. Taking you by force will not worry me.’
Charisa made a move towards the door; Negril Bob grabbed her roughly and threw her into the corner. Too frightened to move, she sat still. Her phone was in her handbag; it was not more than ten feet from her. She leant over and grabbed it with her tied hands. Inside she found her phone. Her captor had gone into the other room. Even though it was difficult, she managed to dial Troy. ‘I’m being held captive by Negril Bob,’ she said. At that moment, the man returned. He took the phone from her and smashed it on the floor, breaking it into several pieces.
‘I will not take you by force,’ he said. ‘But tonight we will make love.’
‘Never.’
‘You’re a beautiful woman, and I’m a good-looking man. What is the harm? One night and the debt with Billy is free. Isn’t he worth that?’
Charisa faced a dilemma, she knew that. Could she trust this man, a man known for violence, but not for deceit.
***
Troy, Charisa’s boyfriend, phoned Isaac; his speech was garbled. ‘What is it?’ Isaac said.
‘It’s Charisa. Negril Bob’s taken her.’
‘When? How do you know?’
‘She phoned.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing more, only that Negril Bob had her.’
Isaac called over to Bridget. ‘Charisa Devon, instigate a search on her phone, a call in the last five minutes. See if you can give us a location.’
Billy Devon was notified; a police car would pick him up and bring him to Challis Street. Troy Hall would find his own way. Larry was on his phone checking with his contacts, and Wendy was preparing to get out and do the legwork once Bridget had pinpointed the general search area.
Superintendent Caddick had been notified; Isaac had phoned him. The man said little in response. Isaac was worried. Charisa Devon was eighteen and bright and in the clutches of a known killer. If she did not play her cards right, the man could act irrationally, maybe kill her, but not before he had satisfied his lust. Isaac felt sorry for the Devon family. They had come to England looking for a better life, and now the mother was dead, the younger son also, and the daughter had been kidnapped. Within that one family, more than several lifetimes of sadness.
Bridget came into the office. ‘A village in Kent. I can only be precise to within one hundred feet.’
‘That’ll do,’ Isaac said.
Wendy was standing at the door. ‘I’ve got a team of ten already. We’ll leave within the next six minutes.’
‘Okay, keep us updated, and remember, Negril Bob is dangerous, possibly armed. Make sure you don’t approach without armed response.’
‘We won’t.’
Larry was out of the office and meeting up with his contacts. With Negril Bob no longer exerting the same level of fear, they were more willing to talk. His first contact, they met in a café, not the one where he usually enjoyed an English breakfast, although this one would have made him one as well, even though it was late afternoon. For once, he did not feel the need; maybe it was after his wife continually being at his side in the hospital, fussing over him, but perhaps it was because he was feeling much better because of his reduced weight. ‘What can you tell me?’ he said. Across from him sat Jimmy, one of Rasta Joe’s men.
‘He’s not around here.’
‘We know that. It’s somewhere out of London.’
‘Nobody has a clue. Kidnapping Charisa Devon is not a good move.’
‘It’ll only bring focus onto all the gangs.’
‘That’s why we’re looking for him as well.’
For once, Larry could see, the police and the gangs were united. Charisa was an innocent, so was Billy, and Rasta Joe had been a friend of the family. His gang would assist, but how? If Negril Bob was not in London, there was not a lot they could do.
‘Samuel Devon?’ Larry asked.
‘It was Negril Bob.’
‘Proof?’
‘There is none.’
***
Quentin Waverley left his wife and child at the hospital and drove over to his
bank. He assembled all the staff and made an announcement that mother and child were doing well, although the founder of the bank, the man who had guided it from its humble beginnings to where it was now, was dead. Everyone had already heard by the time Waverley told them. However, there was still a sense of sorrow amongst the assembled people. George Happold hadn’t been an admired leader, but for a lot of people, he had formed part of their lives for many years.
After making the announcement, Waverley made his way up to Happold’s office. The old man’s PA was there for him, as she had been for his predecessor. ‘I’ve moved some of your things in already,’ she said.
Waverley opened the door, savoured the magnificence. He moved to the other side of Happold’s desk and sat down. He leant back and closed his eyes. For once, his mind was at rest. It had been a long battle to reach this point in his life, and now he knew it had been worth it.
The personal assistant came in. Waverley looked at her; she had been with Happold from when the bank had been no more than two offices above a high street shop. It was time for her retirement.
Chapter 26
Charisa could tell that Negril Bob, apart from making sure that she could not leave, did not intend to force himself on her.
If she acquiesced to his demands, would Billy be safe? If she did not, would he let her go free? She didn’t know.
Whatever happened, it was clear that she was in danger. Outside of the house where she was confined, she could see open fields, another house in the distance, but what if she made a run for it? Would Billy be safe, or would Negril Bob get there first? She believed that the man holding her had killed one of her brothers; she didn’t want to be responsible for the other one’s death.
It was late in the evening, four hours since she had briefly spoken to Troy. She knew he would have contacted DCI Cook; she knew they would not let her down. Negril Bob, surprisingly for a violent man, appeared to be besotted with her. Her best defence was to pretend to enjoy his company without allowing it to go too far.
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