‘Did you kill my brother?’ Charisa asked.
‘Not me,’ Negril Bob said. Charisa did not believe him, and she saw him divert his eyes when he replied.
Apart from that, their conversation was limited. The two of them were sitting in the living room of the house. There were books on a bookcase, but Charisa did not want to read, and Negril Bob kept looking at her in a manner that made her feel uncomfortable. But then, she wondered, why had he brought her to the house? His intention must have been dishonourable, but he made no move. She knew she was in the company of a murderer, but she could not be afraid of the man.
‘Why do this? You intended to rape me, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. That was the deal with Billy.’
‘But you’re not going to.’
‘You are safe with me. I’m just glad of the company.’
‘Then release my bindings. I will not attempt to escape.’
‘Why would you stay?’
‘If you leave here, the police will capture you.’
‘You’ll testify against me?’
‘Not me, as you haven’t done anything.’ Charisa did not know why she felt sorry for the man. Maybe it was because she could see some decency in him.
Negril Bob came over and sat next to her. He removed the cable ties holding her hands together. ‘You remind me of my youngest sister. She’s your age, doing well at school.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Back home in Jamaica. I intended to take you by force when I grabbed you, but now, I can’t.’
Charisa shed a tear, realising that in a moment of contrition the man felt sorrow for the life he had led, the acts of violence he had committed, the anguish he had caused others by his actions. The two people, so different in many ways, shared a moment of mutual trust. She felt as though she wanted to kiss him on the cheek, the same way she would with an older brother, the same as she would with Billy.
Outside the house it was dark, the quiet of the evening disturbed by a barking dog. Negril Bob stood up from where he had been sitting and walked to the window. He looked to the left and the right. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Charisa said.
Negril Bob walked out of the front door of the house and towards a garage on one side. He bent down to pull up the roller door. On the other side of the road, a police officer trained his weapon. ‘I’ve got a clear shot,’ he said to his superior. ‘There is no chance of collateral damage.’
‘Take the shot,’ the command was given.
Charisa sat in the house, oblivious to what was happening outside. If anyone asked her, she’d say it was not kidnapping and that she had come with him voluntarily. She did not know why she would, but she could not feel the hatred for the man that she had before.
Wendy was on the phone to Isaac, updating him as to what was happening. It had not taken them long to find the house as most of the others within the triangulated location were either empty or had been checked by the police.
There was the sound of a shot, the impact of the bullet, and Negril Bob collapsed to the ground. Inside the house, Charisa heard the noise. She came running out, only to see her kidnapper lying on the ground. ‘Charisa, stay back,’ Wendy shouted. ‘It’s Sergeant Gladstone. He’s not dead.’
Charisa, not sure whether to check on Negril Bob or to retreat into the house, stood still. Two armed officers came rushing forward. One of them levelled his gun at the injured man; the other bent down to check his condition. ‘He’ll live,’ he said.
‘It’s all clear,’ one of the officers said. ‘He’s taken a bullet to the shoulder.’
Negril Bob moved slightly. Charisa walked over to him. ‘He was going to take me home,’ she said.
‘That’s as maybe,’ one of the officers said. ‘Our instructions were to immobilise him, shoot to kill if necessary.’
Wendy came down the driveway, put her arms around Charisa. ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’
‘He didn’t do anything. We just talked,’ Charisa said. ‘Have you told Troy and Billy that I’m fine?’
‘They know. They’re with DCI Cook at Challis Street.’
‘I want to go to the hospital with Negril Bob.’
‘He’s under arrest for kidnapping. He’s also a suspect in the murder of two people, one of them being your brother.’
‘He said I reminded him of his sister,’ Charisa said.
Wendy could see that the traumatic events had left her confused. ‘We’ll follow the ambulance in my car if you like. Troy and Billy can meet us at the hospital.’
‘Thank you.’
***
Larry met Jimmy, his best contact with the gangs in the area. Jimmy was not a drinker, or, at least, not to the extent of Rasta Joe. There was no longer an excuse for Larry to drink as much as before, and for that, he was pleased. ‘You’ve heard about Negril Bob?’ Larry said.
‘A lot of people were frightened of him around here.’
‘He’s not coming back. If we can’t get him for murder, then we’ll get him for kidnapping.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Jimmy said.
‘You’ve always been careful before in what you said.’
‘Before there was a Negril Bob to worry about. If we must, we’ll tell you what you need to know.’
‘We?’
‘The other gangs. You’re being here all the time is not wanted.’
‘There’ll always be a police presence looking into gang activity.’
‘But it won’t be you. It’s you and DCI Cook they don’t like.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You two are persistent. You keep looking for dirt.’
Larry wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, or whether some members of the police were taking bribes to look the other way.
‘Rasta Joe? Was Negril Bob there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can we prove it?’
‘Not without Morris Beckford and Marcus Roots.’
‘They’ve already been charged with one murder; they’re not likely to admit to another.’
‘That’s your problem. Beckford’s not that smart; he tends to talk too much sometimes.’
‘Samuel Devon?’
‘Beckford and Roots, probably Negril Bob.’
‘Probably?’
‘Devon was trying to be smart. Most times, it’s a severe beating, maybe a knife wound, but they don’t normally kill someone for their first offence,’ Jimmy said. So far, he had kept to one pint, the same as Larry.
‘Then why was he thrown into the river?’
‘Beckford had a temper. And Samuel Devon had a big mouth.’
‘You think he upset him?’
‘It’s possible, but Beckford and Roots wouldn’t have done it without Negril Bob giving them the order.’
‘But it can’t be proven?’
‘Not a chance.’
Even the beating up of Billy Devon was unproven. Beckford and Roots were the keys; reduced sentences a possibility for providing testimony against their former leader.
***
Negril Bob’s shoulder wound was minor. The armed officer’s intensive training had ensured no lasting damage, but if the man had not collapsed to the ground, he would have fired another shot. One thing was certain as Negril Bob walked out of the front door of the house: he wasn’t going back. Wendy had expected the worst, was relieved that nothing had happened.
At the hospital, Charisa was reunited with Troy and Billy in the reception area. Inside, in one of the rooms, Negril Bob sat up in his bed. His shoulder had been bandaged, the bullet having passed through it. Outside his room were two uniformed police officers.
The doctor had warned about taxing the man; Isaac, cognisant of the need to respect the doctor's advice but desperate to wrap up the current investigations, sat to one side of Negril Bob’s bed.
‘You’ve been charged with kidnapping,’ Isaac said.
‘Charisa will tell you it was a misunderstanding.’
‘We know that, but we have proof that she was locked in the boot of your car, and then the back seat, and that restraint was used. That’s a clear conviction for us. The prison term is at the discretion of a judge.’
‘In my case, a long time, then?’
‘That depends on you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Samuel Devon, Rasta Joe, and Dave Dallimore.’
‘What about them?’
‘We know that you were with Beckford and Roots when Rasta Joe was killed.’
‘Where’s your proof?’
‘Dave Dallimore was our proof, but you had him killed,’ Larry said.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Negril Bob said.
‘He was a homeless man. Beckford and Roots had followed me out to where I had found him.’
‘This is the first time I’ve heard of this.’
‘You’re a liar,’ Isaac said. ‘We know you weren’t there when Dallimore was killed, but we know it was you who gave the order. That’s still a conspiracy to murder.’
‘My lawyer will have it thrown out.’
Isaac knew that he probably would. A phone call at the approximate time was insufficient evidence.
‘Samuel Devon,’ Isaac said.
‘What about him?’
‘Beckford and Roots will talk.’
‘Why would they do that? If, as you say, you’ve got them for one murder, they’re hardly likely to admit to another.’
‘Beckford might. He’s not too bright.’
Both Isaac and Larry knew they had their man, but the proof was uncertain. There was no way that Beckford and Roots would be advised by their lawyer to admit to an additional murder. The kidnapping charge could be proved, and if Charisa kept to her story that the man had behaved impeccably, then his sentence was not likely to be too long.
Outside the ward, Charisa waited to see Negril Bob. Troy was understandably not pleased with the situation, although Billy was relieved that he was off the hook. He would have done anything to have saved his sister, but in the end, it had been the gang leader who had provided the solution.
***
With some resolution to three murders, Isaac and Larry returned to Challis Street. ‘It’s not very satisfactory, is it, guv?’ Larry said.
‘We’ll have the man off the street, but you’re right. There’s not much more we can do.’
Caddick walked into the office. ‘You’ve had some luck,’ he said to Isaac.
‘Luck?’
‘Finding the woman. Rape her, did he?’
Isaac glared at the man. ‘Don’t you check your messages?’
‘Why? Should I?’
‘I messaged you from the hospital. The woman was untouched.’
‘Good, good,’ Caddick said. Isaac could see that he revelled in the salacious and that his mind was in the gutter. ‘Convictions for the murders?’
‘We can prove Dave Dallimore’s murder.’
‘Who?’
‘The homeless man in my reports. The ones I sit in this office until late at night preparing.’
‘I don’t have time to read them. I’m too busy.’
‘Then why am I preparing them?’
‘I’ll read them in future,’ Caddick said. Isaac knew he wouldn’t.
There had been another terrorist attack in the city, two people killed. The rumour was that Davies’s hold on his position as commissioner was in question again. Caddick was looking for brownie points to impress whoever he was sucking up to. Isaac had no intention of giving him anything other than the facts.
‘We’ll not prove Samuel Devon’s murder, probably not Rasta Joe’s,’ Isaac said.
‘But you know who killed them?’
‘Unless they confess we’ll not get a conviction. We’ll secure a conviction against two of them for the murder of Dave Dallimore. The other one will serve time for kidnapping.’
‘It’s not much to report,’ Caddick said. Isaac felt like telling the man to get off his back. Sure, it wasn’t the result they wanted, but it was a result.
Caddick left before he could irritate them anymore.
‘You’ll take his job when they move him out,’ Larry said.
Isaac did not comment. There were still two murders to solve.
Chapter 27
Gwen Waverley watched the news on the television at home. At her side, the newborn infant. Her husband was still in his office at the bank. She wondered whether he was checking the figures, or he was with his personal assistant, having sent her father’s PA on extended leave while they figured out her retirement package.
Her father, she knew, had been having an affair with his PA for thirty-five of the forty odd years that she had worked for him. The discretion of both of them had been absolute, and Gwen had only become aware of it when she was in her mid-twenties. Her father, a kindred spirit, had confided in her, knowing that her reaction would not be one of shock, only of acceptance. And if her father could sleep with his PA, then so could Quentin, her husband.
Gwen looked over at the baby and realised that life was as it should be: two healthy children, a loving husband, even if he strayed occasionally. She switched off the television and picked up her child. She knew that Quentin would be looking for ways to secure the controlling interest in the bank, but she would never allow it. Men such as her husband were to be admired for their resolute desire to succeed at any cost, and without any compunction about who they trod on or hurt on the way, although there was no way that her husband would ever get the better of her.
She put her child back into its bassinet and went and poured herself a drink. She then phoned her husband.
‘I’m busy,’ Quentin Waverley replied. He omitted to say that it was busy with his PA, busy cementing their relationship in George Happold’s old office, now his.
‘I just want to let you know that we make a good team and that you’ll do a good job looking after the bank,’ Gwen said.
It was rare for his wife to phone him, even more unusual for her to comment positively on their relationship, but then, he had noticed her predilection for drinking more than she should in recent months, and with her father recently dead and a new child, he thought it understandable. Her timing could not have been worse.
His PA, a younger woman than Gwen, and very capable professionally, as well as personally, took advantage of her elevated position in the bank. No longer the mistress of a senior director, she was now the mistress of the chairman. It was a life she chose for herself, and Quentin Waverley was not difficult to manipulate, especially for a beguiling female intent on seduction. She knew about him and Gwen, and before that, Amelia. She did not want the involvement of a marriage or children, she wanted the life of a liberated woman, and the new chairman had ensured that for the last year, and she knew he would in the future. She also knew that some of his financial dealings had not been altogether legal and that he had been syphoning bank funds into a separate account overseas. She admired the man that she had taken as her lover. And on the phone was his wife, pretending to care about her husband when she did not.
She had observed Gwen Waverley since before she had married Quentin. It took a woman to know a woman, and she had seen it from the start, that she and Gwen were the same, although one was the daughter of a bank chairman, the other the daughter of an accountant.
There was begrudging respect from each woman for the other, she knew that, but also a battle for dominance. She knew who would win if she could only keep her boss under control, and she had the goods.
When Gwen Waverley’s phone call ended, the PA focussed back on the chairman. After the lovemaking in the office had concluded, and he was sitting back in his chair, a smile on his face, she went back to her room outside. She switched on her laptop and looked for an upmarket flat, the type that befitted the mistress of a merchant bank’s chairman. Mayfair, or maybe Park Lane, and there was a nice little Audi that appealed. She knew they would be hers.
***
; Superintendent Caddick realised that his DCI knew more about how to run a police investigation than he did. And now, in his office, he was confronted by additional responsibilities: the need to deal with staffing levels, the demands of preparing an annual budget, the need to make a presentation at Scotland Yard to his superiors. He was not nervous of standing up in front of a group, but now he had to stand in front of those who would ask questions which he would not be able to answer.
He phoned the one person who could help him. ‘Commissioner, I have to present an updated report on the department. I’m not sure what to do,’ Caddick admitted.
Commissioner Alwyn Davies did not want to hear from members of his team, and especially not Caddick. He knew the deficiencies of the man, but had only put him in Goddard’s place because he did not like the former head of Homicide.
Davies knew that Isaac Cook was competent, although he would not admit it, and that Seth Caddick, apart from his loyalty, was not, and now the man was in trouble, as was he. Too many terrorist attacks in the city and the man he had put in charge of Counter Terrorism Command was struggling, the same as Caddick, the same as he was.
He had studied his contract, knew that if he could hold out for another thirteen months, he would be able to resign with a sixty per cent retention of his pension, but he did not know if even that was possible.
Davies knew the forces were gathering, and Caddick was about to go down the tube. As for terrorism, he didn’t know what to do. He wished that he had let sleeping dogs lie, and had left competent people in their places rather than bringing in his team. And what did they give? Not a lot when he had to deal with senior politicians who were baying for his blood.
‘I can’t help you,’ Davies said.
Caddick, isolated in his office, could see no way out. He looked through the previous reports presented by Goddard: meticulous, full of detail. He took the template and filled in what he could, which was not sufficient. Panicking, he knew that a solution to the murder of Amelia Brice would give him some breathing space, but how to achieve it? His DCI was in charge, and wouldn’t allow him to become involved, but he was the superintendent, he could do what he wanted. He closed the report and left his office.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 144