Isaac was aware of the bail hearing, scheduled for the following Tuesday. Unless there were reasons to the contrary, he would attend, but would not make an impassioned plea for bail to be refused. Pinto was unlikely to cause trouble, he had no prior convictions, and he would return to live with his parents.
The garbage skip in Bloomfield Street had been removed and taken to Forensics. Three of the department’s juniors had been given the task of methodically emptying it. It had been outside the house in Bloomfield Street for builder’s rubble, not as a local tip, but that was what it had become. The three CSIs stood inside the skip, masks on their faces to minimise the smell of the contents: old bricks, wood with nails still protruding, rotten food, and dog faeces. One of the juniors had taken umbrage at the task, but Rose Denning had taken him aside and given him a good talking to; told him that she had had her fair share of unpleasant jobs when she had first joined the department, but now she was involved out at crime scenes. The junior went back to his job, and found the plastic bag ten minutes later.
Once it was removed from the skip, the Forensics team checked it out. Inside there was some blood, but not as much as expected, which, yet again, aligned with Pinto’s statement that the torso had been placed in a freezer before being dropped into Regent’s Canal.
Chapter 8
‘Somebody is supplying you with heroin,’ Larry said to Rasta Joe as they sat in a pub on Portobello Road in Notting Hill.
‘I don’t use heroin,’ the English-born Jamaican said.
‘I’m not here because of that. We know someone is behind the large-scale importation of heroin and cocaine into this country; someone who’ll not hesitate to use extreme violence, even against you.’
‘Whoever he is, he scares us.’ Now Larry knew why the Jamaican was so keen to meet him, not that it meant that Rasta Joe would be buying the drinks.
‘What do you know?’ Larry asked.
‘There are others who trade in drugs.’
‘Not you?’
‘I just clean a few windows, turn a few cars to make money. I don’t mess with heroin.’ Larry only smiled at Rasta Joe’s statement.
‘These others, what do they say?’
‘They say their previous suppliers are either not selling or they’ve disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ Larry queried.
‘Dead.’
‘Any proof?’
‘One day they’re there. The next they’re gone.’
‘How long ago?’
‘One disappeared three weeks ago.’
‘A name?’
‘I’ve never met the man, but those who’ve dealt with him say his name was Rodrigo Fuentes.’
‘It sounds Brazilian.’
‘It is.’
‘Where can I find this man?’
‘I told you, he’s disappeared.’
‘And you believe he’s dead?’
‘That’s the word on the street. Someone killed him because he never listened.’
Larry could see the fear in Rasta Joe’s face, at least when he didn’t have a glass of beer to his mouth. Larry matched him pint for pint, knowing full well what his wife would say when he got home. Another night on the couch in the living room seemed a distinct possibility, the only company the family cat.
‘And those who used to buy from Fuentes are now forced to buy from someone else?’
‘It’s the someone else that’s got everyone scared. We, sorry, I mean they, are compelled to pay more money or else.’
‘Or else?’
‘Dead.’
‘You, sorry, I mean they,’ Larry threw back Rasta Joe’s previous slip of the tongue, ‘are using the deaths of Fuentes and Dougal Stewart as a warning.’
‘Fuentes mainly, but there have been others.’
‘Where are these new suppliers?’
‘They move around.’
‘Rasta Joe, we need to work together on this. I know you’re involved in selling drugs, but I’m with Homicide. Whoever these new players are, they’re organised and extremely violent. They could kill again without warning. If you make one wrong move, say the wrong word, or argue their prices, it could be you in the canal minus your head and your genitals.’
‘They didn’t cut off Dave’s balls,’ Rasta Joe said.
‘You knew him?’
‘We used to drink at the same pub.’
‘And you knew that his genitals were intact?’
‘It was in the newspaper.’
‘No, it wasn’t. You know more than you’re telling me. What is it?’
‘Okay. I’ll need your word that I’m safe from prosecution.’
‘From me, you are.’
‘I’m down the pub. I recognise the two men that we’re forced to deal with sitting not far away. They’re hitting the whisky really hard. One is named Devlin, a miserable, tough bastard. The other one calls himself Steve, fancies himself with the women. Anyway, there I am, minding my own business with my girlfriend, hopeful she’ll be receptive to my charms later in the night.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m getting progressively drunk, as is my girlfriend.’
‘What about the two men?’
‘They’re getting louder. I’m sitting there overhearing what they’re saying.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Devlin starts bragging about how he shot the man in the head. Steve, the other one, recounts how they went at the body with a chainsaw.’
‘You’ve known this for how long?’
‘Just a few days. I thought the men were talking nonsense. It was before you fished the body out of the canal.’
‘They weren’t bragging, and they’ll do it again.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
‘Would you testify? Make a written statement.’
‘Are you serious? With those bastards on the loose?’
‘If we put them out of business?’
‘We’ll see,’ Rasta Joe said.
***
Pinto’s bail hearing was a formality. Katrina Hatcher had prepared well, and Isaac, who had made a plea for the man to remain in prison, as much for his own security as anything else, could not sway the judge.
Conditions were imposed: residence at his parents’ house, a
